


Somethin', Somethin'

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Basketball, Blowjobs, Feelings and stuff, Flirting, Fluff, Football, Hurt/Comfort-ish, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Making Out, OOC, Sexual Tension, handjobs, mild teen angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-10-19 19:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: “If you’re so good, show me how it’s done.”“Gladly.”((AKA: Stan's basketball struggles summon the unsolicited help of Craig, and their interaction brings up some unexpected feelings.))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> soundtrack: "Love Has All Been Done Before" by Jade Bird

Every time the basketball makes contact with the hoop, it cracks something harsh and metallic. The distinct clamor of failure doesn’t stop there, though. It continues with a _whoosh_ through the slowly-warming air of spring, and then smacks repetitively against the man-made ground of the court until it rolls its way to a stop. Beginning to get irritated, Stan kicks the toes of his sneakers into the multitudinous imperfections of the cement. His action stirs up loose gravel and dirt that’s honestly closer to sand than sod. An incoming wind blows the dusty crap up from his ankles and into his face. Instinctively, he scrunches up his expression and spits. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his arm. He has to admit, this crap luck of his is starting to make him feel dejected. What is he expecting to gain, here, anyway? A sudden skill in the realms of basketball? He’s participated in plenty of sports that involve throwing balls, and he’s naturally physically-inclined in that way, but there’s something about basketball in recent years that’s caused him to suffer the cruelty of repetitive failed throws.

Against his better judgment, Stan dips to retrieve the ball and steadies himself into a carefully wide stance. He zeroes in on the basket, locking his gaze on where he plans to aim. That damned rim taunts him. It glints in the small amount of sun that’s visible from the April-shower fog— something he’s thankful for, really. That fog helps cool his skin and keeps him from growing stickily uncomfortable with sweat and overheating in the warmth of the morning. It also dirties the air, so the green of the trees in the background, along with the silver bases of the kickball field just beyond, don’t distract him nearly as much as they could. Stan tightens his grip on the basketball, shifting it momentarily between his two hands and rolling it like that’ll help increase his luck. That’s what he needs right now, really. Some goddamn luck would work wonders, especially if he plans on shooting some hoops with Kyle next weekend. They haven’t shot hoops together since middle school, and with high school graduation just around the corner, they’re running out of opportunities to go back to _the good ol’ days_. Things are great right now, of course; the nostalgia is just nice to dwell in sometimes. Both Stan and Kyle have their own plans laid out for after high school graduation, and nothing is standing in their way. Not in Stan’s way, at least. He doesn’t know about Kyle.

Well, okay. Nothing is standing in Stan’s way _except for this stupid basketball hoop_.

Stan throws the ball, and he immediately knows it’s yet another failure. It doesn’t even have to dink, wimpish, against the basket’s rim for him to know. That stupid ball, he swears. No matter how hard he tries, the dumb lump of orange rubber and plastic flops in a lopsided trajectory. Maybe the ball needs to be inflated? Surely it isn’t something that _Stan_ is doing; he used to be proficient in the art of throwing basketballs in his younger years. He’s throwing it the same way he would when he was a kid. What’s the deal? Is he just unlucky? Have the Sports Gods ruled him to be unfit for the O-So-Holy game of basketball? Did they conduct some _Mightier-Than-Thou_ meeting declaring him banned from good shots? It’s improbable, he knows, but at this point, he’s agitated enough to believe it. Weirder things have happened in this stupid, dinky little town. He’s glad he’s skipping out as soon as he’s got that diploma in his hands.

“Heads up.”

There’s no hesitation in Stan’s movements as he spins, catching the basketball as it flies quickly towards his chest. Momentarily, the air is filled with the hollow sound of it hitting the heels of his palms and catching in the grips of his fingers. He’s confused, but only for a few seconds, as he quickly spots the person who squirmed their way in on the situation.

Craig has his index finger hooked in the collar of his sweater, fanning it like he’s overheating. The thick blue fabric implements some hard-set restrictions in movement, however, so if he’s trying to cool himself off, it likely isn’t doing much. Much to Stan’s surprise, Craig’s shoes and footsteps are utterly silent, even as he steps over rocks and the awkward grit of desert-like soil on the pavement. Some bird calls from deep in the wooded area a few hundred yards from the court. Craig comes to a stop. He’s still fanning his sweater. “The fuck are you doing here, Marsh?”

“What’s it look like?” Stan says, dribbling the ball just to keep his hands busy. Craig doesn’t answer that, just keeps fanning his sweater. The pats of the basketball on the ground stir up dust. At the threat of wind, Stan catches the ball in his palms and ceases the absentminded dribbling. He doesn’t want a repeat of earlier. Dirt tastes like shit, after all. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

“What’s it to me?” asks Craig, his brow quirked in a way that reads Stan’s being stupid, to some immeasurable extent. He finally stops fanning his sweater, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of it instead. “Kind of a lot, actually… if you saw someone brutally abusing a football, would you not feel inclined to step in?”

To that, Stan scoffs. Did he just suggest the basketball is feeling threatened by his practice? That’s one of the most ridiculous things Stan has ever heard, and he’s heard a lot of ridiculous bullshit. “Dude, what?” he asks, letting the ball rest, caught between his hip and his arm. “I’m not abusing the basketball, okay? I’m using it, y’know, like a normal person does when training.”

“Oh, is that what they call malpractice nowadays?”

“I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as malpractice of any kind.”

“Says the basketball abuser.”

Stan’s eye twitches, but he’s pretty sure that’s just an inconsequential muscle spasm. He decides to portray his annoyance nonetheless with a roll of his eyes. “Fine,” he says decidedly, tossing the ball at Craig. Craig catches it with this pompous half-look, like his self-control isn’t enough to keep him from expressing how much _better_ he feels he is in comparison to everyone else. Cocky bastard. Stan walks backwards on the court until he reaches the edge of the pavement, his shoes dipping in the dewy grass. It wets his heels and squeaks his steps, and when he readjusts to stand more fully at the side of the court, he knows he leaves footprints. “If you’re so good, show me how it’s done.”

“Gladly.” That pompous half-look only twitches into a brighter version of itself. Craig tucks the basketball under his arm as he moves into position across from the basket. He gazes up at it blandly, like it’s nothing to him. Stan feels a rush of something. He feels suddenly, very distinctly, like he has to somehow prove he’s better than Craig. He’s not entirely sure _how_ he’s going to do that, especially in this situation, but it grabs at his heart nonetheless. He decides to ignore it in favor of observing.

Craig seems to be thinking about something. His face screws up, just the slightest, in that classic Tucker “I’m-not-happy-about-this” way. Stan almost convinces himself to ask him what the fuck’s eating him, but he doesn’t get the opportunity. Craig adjusts his position, and then takes a step back. Then, he takes another step back. And another. The condescending asshole takes an entire _six steps backward_ and then shoots Stan this look, which is somehow a mix of the other two looks he’s been expressing. That feeling of needing to prove himself increases, and Stan expels the energy through a scoff.

It goes without saying that Craig doesn’t react to the scoff, though Stan would bet money on the fact that his half-smirk twitched just the slightest.

Craig starts to talk. Not just that, he starts to _narrate_ everything he’s doing, like he’s part of some instructional video set Stan picked up at the local fitness center. Craig goes through the steps verbally as he does them, and Stan is so shocked at the audacity of this ass that he completely ignores what he’s saying in favor of glaring. He feels a large chunk of his pride get lobbed off when Craig shoots cleanly into the basket. It hits home and barely makes a sound, flushing through the net without issue. Craig heads forward to catch it after it bounces a few times. He turns to look at Stan over his shoulder, then nods towards where he’d been standing just before making the shot.

Craig throws Stan the ball, and Stan catches it in miffed silence. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Craig says, tugging down the zipper of his sweater. He shrugs it off and then ties it around his waist, adjusting the white wife-beater he’d apparently been wearing beneath it. Stan is shocked, for a second, but he quickly shakes it away in favor of getting into position to take a shot. He gets into his usual stance, lifts the ball, and—

Stan halts when he suddenly feels Craig nudge him. He hadn’t even noticed Craig had walked over, and the sudden contact isn’t what he’s expecting. The surprise causes him to jump. The skin of his arm remembers the feeling of Craig’s hand with needling pinpricks, making the area feel warm and vaguely contaminated. “What do you want _now_?” Stan asks.

“Did you not listen to anything I said? You’re standing wrong,” Craig says. Stan rolls his eyes. _How helpful._ Fortunately— or, maybe more unfortunately— Craig decides to afford him the kindness of elaboration. “You’re coming at this like a football player, idiot, bring in your feet.”

“Wha—”

“Bring in,” Craig says, punctuating his words with a kick to Stan’s ankle. Stan stumbles, forced to put his feet closer together. “Your feet.”

“Ow— hey!”

Craig isn’t having it. “Oh, shut up, you crybaby, I’m helping you.”

“If help hurts this much, I don’t know if I want it,” says Stan. He has the sudden urge to smother Craig with the basketball, but he doesn’t. He seriously deserves some sort of award for his restraint, because Craig is just as insufferable as Stan remembers him being all throughout their school careers. For the second time, Stan lifts the ball up to shoot, and for the second time, Craig stops him. This time, he’s met with a firm hand on his right arm. That tingly, prickling feeling comes back wherever Craig touches.

“Gimme the ball,” Craig says. Stan rolls his eyes, but acquiesces nonetheless, passing Craig the ball thanklessly. Craig proceeds to roll the ball between his palms, and adjust until he’s holding it the way he wants to be. He displays it to Stan. “Left hand is perpendicular to the lines, right hand directly underneath. See?”

Maybe it’s subconscious, but Craig actually slips into his I’m-About-To-Throw stance. The sporty part of Stan’s brain tells him it’s aesthetically pleasing to see Craig brandishing the basketball like he’s mid-game. Craig gives Stan a look that reads _you get it?_  and Stan nods, perhaps a little dumbly. Craig gives back the ball. As much as Stan hates it, he tries to copy the stance Craig had modeled. Something about his stance must not be perfect, though, because Craig nitpicks it rather roughly. Physically. Craig grabs Stan’s elbow and pushes it in.

“Elbow straight underneath,” Craig says. “Not out to the side.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Stan says. He pulls away from Craig’s grip. Craig holds his hands up and steps back, allowing Stan his space. Stan appreciates it, but doesn’t say as much. He gets back into the stance— shooting a look to Craig when he makes sure to keep his arm _directly underneath_ the ball—, and moves to—

“Left hand is to _guide_ the ball,” says Craig. Stan ignores the urge to drop the ball and walk away. He adjusts himself properly, although reluctantly. Craig doesn’t stop offering his stupid advice. “Eyes on the target, Marsh, or you’ll miss.”

“Yeah, yeah, eyes are important, suck my dick, why don’cha?” Stan’s not _entirely_ sure where that came from, but he’s rolling with it. He gets back into stance. This time, when Craig tries to interject, Stan just straight-on tells him to shut up. _I’ve got it, motherfucker. Christ, do you ever stop talking?_

The tension before Stan throws is virtually palpable. It thickens the air and makes the fog that settles through the field around them seem almost like a sturdy, unmoving mist. He can hear his breathing as he focuses distinctly on the basket. Just throw it. Throw the ball, Stan. You got this. He hears Craig snort a stupid laugh, and Stan wonders if he’s saying that shit out loud. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t give a damn about Craig, and as much as he wants to purposefully sabotage the throw to maybe fuck up Craig’s ego, he decides that’d be stupid. Craig’s so aloof, he probably would just pin all the fault on Stan— rightfully so. Craig and his stupid observations. How detail-oriented can a guy _be_ , anyway?

Craig asks him if he’s going to throw the ball or not, and that gives Stan the push he needs to try the throw. He shoots, and holds his breath as he watches the ball. It seems to go in slow-motion, like something straight out of a movie after a montage or some shit. The fact that he actually makes the shot sweetens the cheesy deal. Adrenaline or something pumps through his veins, and he feels distinctly energetic when it flies through the hoop, no problem. Stan throws his arms into the air and hops back, releasing a sharp, “Woo!” of accomplishment. He’d been skeptical before, but now he can’t help but feel like Craig is some sort of Godsend. Now he’ll be able to shoot hoops with Kyle next week, and he _won’t_ make a total fool out of himself doing so. Laughing, Stan says, “God, Craig, I could kiss you!”

Craig makes another one of those noises under his breath. It’s something amused and vaguely laugh-like. Stan turns to face him, brushing his slightly-dirty hands off on the sides of his shorts. He’s grinning from ear-to-ear, happy with the way it turned out, even if he had to suffer the insolence of Craig. It hadn’t been _that bad_ , he’ll admit. It was just the irritation of the fact that he hadn’t been able to make _any_ baskets that translated into a false over-the-top hatred of this guy. They may have been rivals once upon a time— and, sure, Stan doesn’t really like him very much—, but…

All of his thoughts stop when he notices Craig is suddenly quite close to him. Craig has stalked over, hands in the pockets of his jeans, holding himself in casual nonchalance. When Stan thinks Craig’s going to stop, he doesn’t. He keeps taking steps until there’s only six inches of space between them, maximum. The fog of mid-April had made Craig’s skin appear almost pale, but only from a distance. Now that they’re close, Stan can see the deep caramel undertones of it. The white cotton of the tank top contrasts a lot more sharply than Stan had initially thought.

“You could kiss me, huh?” Craig says. Stan knows it’s just because of the suggestiveness of the situation, but he glances at Craig’s lips nonetheless. They’re smooth, he notices. It feels like a weird thing to notice, but he brushes it off under the pretense of that same suggestiveness. He waits for Craig to say something else, or for him to walk away, or _do_ something, but he doesn’t. Craig is silent. Stan is speechless.

Craig leans in further, suddenly taking up everything in Stan’s vision. Stan ignores the green of the trees and the gray of the fog, instead finding himself drawn to Craig’s eyes. They’re gray— grayer than the fog, a similar color to the darkened, rainy sky. They have wisps and hints of blue, striking and crown-like in surrounding his pupils. Impossibly, Craig leans in further. Stan can feel the heat of the air escaping from his mouth. His breath smells like peppermint. Without thinking, Stan’s eyes start to slip closed. His brain checks out on vacation, allowing— whatever this is— to happen without question. _Fuck it_ , says his brain.

The contact Stan receives is not the contact he expects.

Craig has lifted a hand and clasped it, rather firmly, over Stan’s mouth. Stan’s eyes fly open. He stares at Craig, who smirks at him like this is some sort of colossal joke, and— well. It is, isn’t it? It’s a joke, and Stan totally, one hundred percent, absolutely fell for it. Stan’s face heats up uncontrollably, embarrassed at best and _totally humiliated_ at worst. He knows he should pull away from Craig. He should probably come up with some sort of joke of his own, or something, some smug one-liner that’ll snap the tension he’s just created, but his brain draws a blank. Craig is still really close to him.

“I don’t kiss in public, Marsh,” Craig says. “Because as soon as we start, you aren’t gonna wanna stop.”

That smirk flashes into something more smug. Craig is obviously proud of whatever the fuck this is, and it pisses Stan off immensely. He probably looks ridiculous, glaring at Craig over the hand still covering his mouth. Finally, Stan becomes agitated enough to take action. He opens his mouth against Craig’s hand and licks a wet stripe along the center of his palm. Craig pulls away, but doesn’t look grossed out in the slightest. It’s Stan that feels grossed out, really. After handling the basketball, Craig’s palms had gained a minuscule overlay of dust and dirt. It tastes just like the shit Stan had kicked up earlier. Maintaining eye contact with Craig, Stan spits onto the cement.

Amusement dances across Craig’s expression. That stupid smirk of his twitches. Then, he lifts his hand and licks exactly where Stan had. Stan’s mouth falls open as he watches this action, completely unsure of how he’s supposed to react to it, because that’s certainly crossing a line, right? Like, it had all been fun and games up to this point, but that was, like. At least half-gay.

Craig drops his hand back down by his side. It might be important to note the fact that he doesn’t wipe any of the saliva off of his palm. Just as Stan thought it couldn’t get any worse, Craig leaned right in to whisper in Stan’s ear, “You taste _fantastic_.”

Stan is ninety percent sure he makes a whining noise, but he’s a little too light-headed to know for sure. Craig takes a few steps back, with that stupid smug look still coating his face like some sort of irritating mask, and gives Stan a suggestive wink. Then, without any words of explanation or otherwise, Craig turns on his heel and walks away from the court. Still stricken, Stan does nothing other than watch.

Minutes pass. Many minutes, in fact, and Stan knows that for sure. He stands through dozens of breezes, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened. His entire face tingles where Craig had touched him, and his lips feel sensitive and warm. Subconsciously, Stan reaches up to run his fingers over the surface of his lips. Whoa. _Whoa_.

“Dude,” Stan says to no one. “Dude, that was pretty fucked up, right there.”

Dazed, Stan retrieves the basketball and decides it’s best to head home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Kyle shoot some hoops. Kyle dotes and Stan can't shut up.
> 
> Also, garage doors.

Stan is mid-lurch for the ball when it’s suddenly swapped out of the air by Kyle. Stan’s shoes scratch and scrape on the pavement as he stumbles to a stop. He opens his mouth to call out cheats, but stops short when he sees the look on his friend’s face. Kyle looks agitated, his mouth screwed up like he’s trying not to frown. Stan wipes away the sweat that had been slowly collecting on the back of his neck. Kyle isn’t saying anything. Neither of them are, really. They stare at each other for a moment. In confusion, Stan glances around the court. It’s heated up a bit, and the sun beats down on them. The longer they stand here, the easier they’ll bake, and Kyle has a tendency to burn rather than tan. To Stan, of course, there’s no logical reason to Kyle’s stiffness.

Stan’s confusion only heightens further when Kyle lowers the ball from chest-height to waist-height and asks, “What are you doing?”

Once more, Stan glances around the court. Kyle’s totally not talking to him, right? But the court is empty, and they are the only ones there. Stan points to himself. Kyle rolls his eyes.

“Yes, _you_ , Stan. What are you doing?”

“I…” Stan’s gaze shoots to the ground, where his feet stand perfectly still on the cement. One of his shoelaces is coming untied. He’ll have to fix that later. He runs his hand through his hair and asks, “What?”

“The whole—” Kyle cuts off, freeing one hand to run his fingertips around the edges of his lips. Stan has no idea what the fuck Kyle is doing. Unsure, Stan repeats the action Kyle had been performing. Kyle drops his hand from his mouth and points to Stan’s mimicking. “That! What is that?”

Stan’s face heats up. Fuck coherency, he’s confused. He repeats, “What.”

“Jesus Christ, do I have to spell it out for you?” Kyle rolls his eyes, even going so far as to groan from the effort necessary. He rights himself quickly, gesturing with a sharp hand in Stan’s direction. “You’ve been touching your mouth for the past hour, and it’s wigging me out! What’s up with you, anyway?”

Stan begins with another “Wh—” but Kyle cuts him off before he can finish.

“Don’t ‘what’ me!” Kyle says. “You’re freaked out because I caught you doing something weird, and you’re trying to brush it off. I get it, okay? But I’m serious in saying it’s weirding me the hell out and I need an explanation.”

“Wh—” Again, Kyle interrupts.

“Not to mention you’ve been, like, _spacey_ all day, it’s like you’re off in some other world or something,” Kyle says. Stan rolls his eyes.

“Wh—”

“And—!”

Stan throws his hands up into the air. “Dude, will you stop cutting me off?”

Kyle shuts up. Fucking _thank you_.

“I’m sorry you’re upset about my… mouth, or whatever—”

“I’m not upset about your mouth!” Kyle drops the basketball onto the cement of the court. It bounces a few times and rolls a foot or so before coming to a stop at the grass beside them. He places his hands on his hips, an undeniable air of pure frustration emanating from his very posture. He closes his eyes as he sighs, apparently trying to gather himself before he keeps talking. “I’m upset about the fact that you keep touching it!”

“Look, I don’t even know why you’ve been looking at my mouth in the first place,” Stan says.

“Shut up!” Kyle replies. Stan is silent for a few seconds, and so is Kyle.

Stan averts his gaze and begins stalking towards the edge of the court, crouching to retrieve the basketball. There’s a scuff on the side of it. When he looks up at Kyle again, he notices that Kyle has turned red. His brows are furrowed, and his lips are pressed into a tight line, like he’s trying not to say anything incriminating.

“I wasn’t even looking at your mouth, I was looking at your hands,” Kyle says.

“Why the hell were you looking at my hands?”

“Because we’re _playing basketball!_ ” Kyle groans, curling his fingers through his hair. He turns around and starts walking the perimeter of the court. Stan throws the ball against the ground and catches it, waiting for Kyle to work off some of the steam. Ever since they hit teenage years, Kyle has gotten much more naturally irate. Stan doesn’t know what the hell is going on in his head, really, and he doesn’t know if he wants to. It’s fun to see Kyle go off on Eric basically biweekly, though, even if they get into more fights because of it. At the end of the day, it’s all just fun and games.

Kyle comes to a sudden stop, pulling his hands out of his hair. His face is still red, but he doesn’t look nearly as worked up. Stan starts to wonder if Kyle’s flush is actually the beginning stages of a sunburn. “Okay, you know what?” Kyle says, taking a step forward. He holds his hands up approximately shoulder-level, palms facing out. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine, I don’t care, just stop touching your face, okay? Or you’ll get all the dirt and shit in your mouth and then you’ll, like, get sick or die.”

“I won’t get sick or die,” Stan says.

“Let me dote, asshole,” Kyle snaps. Stan surrenders him the right to do so. “Toss me the ball, while you’re at it.”

Stan does. Kyle catches it easily. They gravitate towards the center of the court once more, beginning to warm themselves up for more mindless ball-tossing and hoop-shooting. Such a thing is managed quickly, and it’s only minutes before they’re right back where they left off, roughhousing to win against one another in a very casual game. Now that attention has been brought to the fact that Stan had been touching his mouth, it takes a very significant, conscious effort to keep him from doing it again. The more he thinks about _not doing it_ , the more he thinks about _doing it_. He doesn’t even know how he didn’t notice it. It’s the weirdest thing.

Kyle sneaks up behind him, to his right, and the blunt reality of why he’d been mindlessly obsessed with his own mouth hits him like a ton of bricks. Stan can feel his face burn, and his ears are starting to throb with his heartbeat. He clutches the ball tight to his chest and ducks, weaving underneath Kyle’s outstretched arms. “Hey!” Kyle shouts, kicking Stan in the shin. Stan hops a couple of times, flailing his own leg to kick Kyle back. He doesn’t manage to succeed, but he tries nonetheless. “Illegal!”

“You’re calling me out on a game of catch?” Stan asks.

“Does this look like catch to you?” Kyle replies. He steals the ball from Stan when his guard is down.

“Dude!”

“Stop whining and get prepped for an ass kicking,” Kyle says. Stan can’t help it; he scoffs. He backs up from where Kyle stands, already knowing what Kyle wants without there being a need for verbalization. Once they’re a good seven feet away from one another, Kyle tosses the ball to Stan. Stan catches it, and tosses it right back. They continue like this mindlessly for a while.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stan says. Kyle pretends like he has no idea what Stan is talking about, but they both know full-well that their conversation has come back to the original issue of Stan’s mouth.

“’Kay,” Kyle says. He throws the ball particularly hard at Stan’s face, and Stan has to duck before he can even think of catching it. The ball sails over his head, landing somewhere off in the distance where the evergreens grow. Stan dismisses himself and spins on his heel, darting off to retrieve the ball. When he comes back to the court, Kyle is laughing. “Wow, what was that?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a football player,” Kyle says. “Isn’t the point of that game to _not_ dodge?”

“Only if you’re a plebeian.”

“That’s the stupidest shit… toss the ball.”

Stan doesn’t shy away from that very action. He doesn’t stop there, though. He gives this throw everything he has. He really puts his back into it. It doesn’t do much other than increase the impact it has against Kyle’s palms. Kyle doesn’t do much in his outward displays of the pain of it, though he inhales from the sting.

“Ouch, man—”

“I kissed Craig.” And then it’s like a dam has burst. Stan’s thoughts won’t stop coming, won’t stop lingering and swirling and poking him in the back of the head. The memory of Craig standing before him, of Craig clamping his hand over Stan’s mouth— it’s a lot, all at once, and Stan’s mouth is tingling very much, in a way he doesn’t remember ever feeling before. It’s distressingly, strangely... Stan shivers.

Back in the real world, Kyle is staring at Stan like he’s lost his mind. “You what?”

“Well, okay, I didn’t kiss him,” Stan says, “I just— like, almost, okay? It was an almost, like, it _could_ have happened, but it didn’t, because Craig is an asshole.”

“So…” Kyle hops the ball between his palms, pursing his lips in thought. “You wanted to kiss him.”

“What? No!” Stan shakes his head. He pushes his hands into his pockets to avoid wiping away the phantom feeling of Craig’s hand on his mouth. “I didn’t want to kiss him, dude! I just—”

“So he made a move on you?” Kyle asks. His eyes have gone wide, his pupils catching the light and reflecting what he sees. The image of his vision is so tiny that Stan can’t see it, and he doesn’t really care to. The last thing he’d want to see is his own face staring back at him, flushed and embarrassed and definitely still thinking about the warmth of Craig’s skin— “Like, he just— went for it? Did he do anything else?”

“ _No_ ,” Stan hisses. “He didn’t _do_ anything! We didn’t even kiss, okay? And _I_ started it, anyway.”

“I don’t like the way you just said that.”

“Will you stop?”

“Since when are you gay?” Kyle asks. He starts to dribble the ball against the cement, kicking up a minuscule layer of the dust they’ve been leaving in their tracks throughout their game.

“I’m not gay,” Stan says. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, and when he does, Kyle jumps at the opportunity to throw the ball at him. Stan catches it, though admittedly fumbles with the suddenness of the reflex. It’s getting kind of late, and it’s getting kind of dark. The sun has fallen enough to trip the streetlights, which have started to flick on slowly. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Right, but you almost did something,” Kyle says. “So it was almost gay.”

Stan ducks his head, suddenly extremely interested in the scuff on the side of the ball. He starts rubbing at it with the heel of his palm, trying to lift it from the messy orange exterior. It doesn’t do much other than get dirt all over his palms, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. In fact, the only thing Stan does is try to remove it more insistently.

“It’s okay if you’re gay, you know, like, I don’t care.” Stan looks up just in time to see Kyle shrugging. The flush of his face still hasn’t dissipated, meaning it’s likely a sunburn, rather than exertion— emotional _or_ physical, however the prospect might have landed. Stan makes a face, trying to force away the embarrassed heat that keeps resurfacing in his ears and the sides of his head. It’s pounding, and it’s very distracting. The smudge Stan has been obsessed with finally smudges, but that’s all. No other give is visible.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stan says, finally giving up on the scuff. He throws the ball to Kyle. Kyle catches it.

“’Kay,” Kyle says again, and that’s that.

Both of them abandon the useless game of catch and resume shooting baskets. The competition has faded, which means they’re left with playing a point-less and pointless game of HORSE, without much of an incentive. Essentially, they’re taking turns aiming for the hoop and shooting. It’s stupid, maybe, but for some reason, it feels better than the neck-and-neck of a false rivalry between them. They don’t say anything, for a long time, just swap places and shoot hoops, internalizing whatever the hell is going on. Stan kind of likes it, really. He likes not having to say anything in order to hang out with a friend. He likes the lack of pressure.

Except for the fact that he’s still all… bothered.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Stan says, fresh from his last throw. Kyle retrieves the ball.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“What do you want _me_ to do about it?” Kyle asks. He wanders over with the ball and nudges Stan out of the way with his elbow. Stan takes a couple steps sideways, allowing Kyle the space he needs to throw. To that, Stan says nothing. He kicks dumbly at the bits and pieces of a shattered pine cone that they’ve probably been stomping on for the past few hours. Kyle preps to throw the ball, and just as it leaves his grasp, the words erupt from Stan’s throat, very suddenly.

“I licked him.”

Kyle sputters, practically doubling over from the shock. The ball lands somewhere, but at this point, they’re too far in to even remember that there _was_ a ball. Kyle spins around, staring at Stan incredulously. The embarrassment starts to throb in Stan’s ears again. “You _what?_ ” Kyle asks. “And you said you’re _not gay?_ You licked him _where?_ ”

“His hand,” Stan says. Kyle rolls his eyes. Stan stumbles to explain himself. “I mean— like, he covered my mouth with his hand, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Okay, I don’t like the way this sounds,” Kyle says. “Tell me what the fuck happened here, or I’m gonna freak.”

It takes a few minutes for Stan to properly explain the ordeal that had happened the other day, but he eventually manages, and as such, Kyle finally seems to get it. Kyle is still exasperated, but he definitely understands it better than he had just a second ago. Stan had expected to feel better without the weight of the near-kiss on his shoulders, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel better at all. In fact, now the thoughts definitely aren’t going away. They’re progressing to ideas of what _could_ have happened. He can’t stop thinking about what it’d feel like to grab Craig’s stupid face and kiss his stupid lips and… stuff.

He doesn’t say any of that stuff to Kyle, though.

“So, yeah,” Stan says, wiping his palms off on the front of his shirt. There’s no reason behind why he does this, really, it’s just a nervous action. His hands do feel a little sweaty, though. There’s a flush that keeps surfacing on his skin, washing over him in a way that he isn’t used to. He wonders if he’s maybe, possibly said some things that he shouldn’t have.

“Oh,” Kyle finally says. He turns and moves to retrieve the ball that they’d forgotten about, though neither of them are interested in continuing their game. The time has passed for that type of casualty. Kyle scrapes the mud off of the soles of his shoes by dragging them across the fracturing cement. “Alright, so…”

Kyle falls quiet, now finished with the clearing of his shoes. There’s a beat, where neither of them say anything. A cloud drifts over the sun, making the rest of the field darken more than it’s already naturally been doing. It’s edging on being cold enough for mosquitoes, Stan notices, and just as he entertains the thought, he has to wave away the buzzing of one such annoying insect. It lands on his wrist. He’s not interested in receiving a mosquito bite, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to, like, kill it, or anything, so… he lets it.

“Do you, like… _like_ him, or something?” Kyle asks. Stan looks up from where he’d been distracted by the mosquito.

“No,” Stan says. “I don’t think it’s an emotions thing, or anything, I think it’s just a—”

“Just a ‘he’s hot’ thing?” Kyle asks.

“Well, okay, not when you put it _that way,_ but…” The mosquito flies away. Stan stares at the mark left behind. He’ll regret letting it do that tomorrow. “Yeah? I guess?”

“Okay, great, so…” Kyle shifts his weight, tucking the basketball underneath one of his arms. “Kiss him.”

Stan, shocked, looks up. “What?”

“What?” echoes Kyle, tilting his head. “We both know it wouldn’t be your first kiss.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“But what?” Kyle starts to walk away from the court, and Stan follows him, obeying the silent contract to walk home with each other. “It’s not like it’ll hurt anything, and you obviously want to… besides, if you end up not liking it, you’ll be able to stop thinking about it, and then you won’t be all, like, _weird_ anymore.”

Stan doesn’t really like the sound of that plan. The logical side of him doesn’t, at least. The physical and emotional sides of him, however, want nothing more than an excuse to find out how it feels to kiss Craig. It’s a weird feeling— because that’s what it is. It’s not really an active thought. It’s like, this… physical program that tells him he’ll like how it feels. Maybe that scares him, a little. “But what if I do like it?” Stan asks. Their shadows drift and fade as they enter the intermittent lighting of the streetlights. Stan watches those shadows, even tries to kick them as they pass. “What do I do then?”

Kyle hums, apparently in thought, from that prospect. “I don’t know,” he admits, which doesn’t make Stan feel much better. He looks up, and so does Kyle, and their eyes meet. It’s weird for Stan to feel like he’s getting emotional support from his best friend on relationship issues. Granted, it isn’t the first time, but it _is_ the first time these relationship issues have dealt with another dude. “If you like it, maybe there’s something there.”

“Something there?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “Who’s to say you guys _aren’t_ supposed to, like, be together?”

“Uh, literally everyone,” Stan says. Kyle scoffs, elbowing Stan playfully.

“Not true.”

“We’ve always made fun of each other, Kyle,” says Stan. “It’s always been, like, _Craig and those guys_ , y’know? How fuckin’ weird would it be for us to, like… mess around, or whatever?”

“A little weird, yeah, I guess,” Kyle says.

“What if I like it and he doesn’t?” Stan asks, unable to keep himself from being swept away in the possibility— and not in the good way.

“Stan, that’s what ice cream is for, alright? Just don’t puke on him, and you’ll be fine,” Kyle says. He looks away from Stan, and Stan takes that as a sign to look away, too. Stan busies himself with staring at the slowly approaching sidewalk ahead of them. They come up quickly to the fence— now beaten and slightly unstable from the years— and push open the gate. Now in the main neighborhood, they turn right to continue on the sidewalk. Kyle’s house is approaching. In fact, it’s right there. “And don’t sulk, okay? Come to me if shit hits the fan, whatever you decide to do.”

“Okay,” Stan says. He retrieves his basketball from Kyle and says goodbye. Kyle pats him on the back, probably to be reassuring, but it feels a little flat. Kyle enters his house, and when he’s out of sight, Stan walks the next hundred or so feet to his own house.

Stan stops short only a foot up his driveway.

He has to say, out of everything, he didn’t expect this.

Craig is leaning his back against the Marsh’s garage door. He has his phone out, flicking through something or other on it. The dull light is barely visible in its reflection on Craig’s face, but Stan can’t really find it in him to care. He hadn’t seen Craig as he had been approaching— Randy’s car had been in the way of the visual. It feels like forever before anything changes. Craig glances up from his phone, and as soon as he notices Stan, he turns it off and pockets it. Stan’s ears are burning again, for the umpteenth time. Just looking at Craig is enough of a reminder. His brain tells his stomach to tie itself into knots, or maybe it’s his body’s automatic reaction. What is Craig doing here? Has he come to gloat? Has he come to tell Stan he’s an idiot? Has he come to...

 _Kiss_ him, now that they’re not technically in public?

Stan starts up the driveway, brisk. Craig pushes away from the garage door. “Hey,” Craig says. He digs into his pocket for something, but Stan hardly has the brain capacity to realize it.

In a matter of seconds, Stan drops the basketball and closes the distance between them. Stan grabs the sides of Craig’s head, ignoring the fabric of Craig’s hat against his hands. He doesn’t think, he just does, and that has to be a mistake. Right?

Because he’s kissing Craig. Like, full-on, mouth-to-mouth, _kissing_ Craig, and this is _not at all_ what he planned on doing.

Stan closes his eyes and sinks into it. Craig’s lips are soft and dry, hot against Stan’s own. He could sit here forever, suffocating himself by not breathing in, afraid of taking air that isn’t his, afraid of being a thief. With that thought, Stan pulls away. His grasp on the sides of Craig’s head loosens, but Stan doesn’t fully let go. He opens his eyes, slow, afraid of what he’ll see now that the moment is over.

When Stan looks at Craig, he is met with a dazed expression. Craig’s eyes are half-lidded; his pupils are blown, wide and catching the reflection of the streetlights beyond them, and if Stan focused enough, he’d be able to see his own face reflected in them. He knows he must look stupid. He must look absolutely ridiculous, sweaty and dusty from basketball, smelling of rubber and the outdoors, wearing the most casual outerwear of basketball shorts and a fucking _tee-shirt_ that’s too big for him, but Craig’s expression doesn’t read that he realizes any of it. Craig just looks, expression relaxed, breathing softly into the space between them, making _eye contact_.

The next kiss comes just as suddenly, except Craig is the one to initiate it. Craig hooks his fingers in the front of Stan’s hurt, tugging him as close as possible. Stan has no choice but to follow. Their mouths meet and their eyes close. Stan tries to press closer, but Craig takes it as an urge to back up. They shuffle until Craig’s back straightens out against the garage door. Stan lets go of Craig in favor of bracing himself against said garage door, his forearms cooling on the metal. More comfortable, they exhale, hot against each other.

They pull away. They linger in the afterward of it, in the soft of the evening, in the coolness of the air. Stan is starting to feel the itch of the mosquito bite on his wrist, but he ignores it, breathing deep and heavy. It feels like he can’t get a full breath, but at the same time, he’s never been able to breathe easier. It’s a weird state of _maybe-I’m-gonna-need-my-inhaler-later-tonight-but-right-now-I'm-okay._

“Whoa,” Craig whispers. His mouth remains slightly parted. His lips, pink, having formed the words with ease, are hypnotic. Stan wants nothing more than to take him up to his bedroom _right now_. Or, ask, at least. Fuck, Stan’s skin is tingling, covered in razor-sharp prickles, like a blanket of needle-points. His very _being_ is following the rhythmic beating of his heart, which is assuredly making the blood rush to his ears, and _everywhere_ — but only a little.

“Yeah,” Stan says. “Why, uh… why are you here?”

Craig pulls one of his hands away from Stan’s shirt and digs around in his sweater pocket. Stan watches, and when Craig lifts his hand with something clenched in it, Stan lowers his own. Craig drops the object into Stan’s open palm. Stan looks at it, even as Craig observes the item vocally. “Dog tags,” Craig says, his voice still breathy.

Stan turns the tags over in his hand, the main chain they’re attached to falling through his fingers. Shit. He must have dropped these somewhere.

“Figured you’d want those back,” Craig says. Stan only nods, feeling like an idiot. He pulls away from Craig, pulling the chain over his head and around his neck. Once it’s settled, Stan tugs on the tags themselves, a nervous habit he’d picked up at some point since he’d gotten the item.

“Thanks,” Stan says. Craig shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He clears his throat, kicking at the driveway. Stan rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly realizing he could really go for a shower. “I, um… would you like to do that again?”

Craig glances up, brows slightly furrowed.

“Kiss,” Stan adds, as if it needs explanation. He’s making a fool of himself. He swallows.

Craig’s expression shifts. He looks significantly less confused, and pulls a hand out of his pocket to clap Stan on the shoulder. It leaves Stan feeling a certain type of way that he wouldn’t be able to even _try_ explaining. “Next weekend, your place,” Craig says. “That work for you?”

Stan nods, maybe a little too eager, but Craig doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’ll see you then,” Craig tells him. He starts on his way down the driveway, hands back into his pockets, and Stan watches him leave.

“I’ll see you then,” Stan echoes to himself. His mouth is warmer than ever, more pinprick-y than ever, more sensitive and craving than ever...

It’s not as scary as Stan thought it’d be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't think i'd be continuing this ever but here we are lol
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig and Stan make out. Stan is conflicted and Craig won't shut up.
> 
> Also, euphemisms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically a bunch of making out.  
> oh, and bad dirty-talk?  
> consider yourselves warned.

As the agreed time draws nearer and nearer, Stan’s stomach fills with an insane amount of butterflies. He’s no stranger to feeling nervous, nor is he a stranger to the nausea that couples itself with it, but even he can admit that it’s been a damn long time since he’s felt _this_ on-edge. He spends a solid hour finishing up homework, and then moves on to cleaning his bedroom. Does he also clean the kitchen and living room? Absolutely, and there’s no doubt that his mother would be proud in a really shocked way… if she were home, at this point. This weekend had been turning out flawlessly thus far. His parents were gone, his shit was in order, and there was no cancellation text from Craig. Could it _get_ any more perfect? The answer was, of course, a solid _no_. It could not possibly get any more perfect. Perhaps that’s a bit of a bold statement, considering Craig hasn’t even _arrived_ yet, but Stan can’t find it in himself to care.

Now smelling distinctly of lemon-scented cleaner, Stan plops himself down in his desk chair and rolls over to his guitar stand. A glance at the clock reveals he’s still got thirty minutes to spare. He’s run out of things to clean. He has no more tasks to take care of. So, why _not_ fuck around on this thing? He pulls it into his lap and hooks his arm over, taking the time to actually tune it. He’ll admit, it’s been almost a month since he’s picked it up. He usually tries to practice more often, but he’s been busy with senior year shit, okay? And since he doesn’t plan on doing anything with music in his future, he has to prioritize.

It does feel nice to play, though.

He purses his lips, gazing down casually at his own hands, strumming some random chords to get used to the feeling. The calluses he’d developed from his consistent playing have yet to fully go away, which only makes playing easier and much more natural. He sinks a little deeper into his chair, whistling along with the melody he’s mindlessly picking. He pushes himself backwards across his bedroom floor, rolling in his desk chair. Does it distract him? Of course it does, and he fucks up the song a few times along the way, but that just makes things more interesting. Plus, it satisfies his endless need to keep moving. He strums down a little chaotically on an A minor, which always sounds a little weird on acoustic guitar, but it’s the type of weird he doesn’t mind. Just to have fun with it, he repeats the action.

Then the doorbell rings, and Stan can’t leap out of his chair fast enough.

He deposits the guitar a little haphazardly in the stand as he darts out of his room, stumbling down the hallway and the steps. He almost trips over his feet, but he doesn’t, which he considers a win on his part. He keeps his hand on the banister, and only lets go once he’s met the solid floor of the landing, turning quickly to the front door. He turns the lock, which clicks as it opens, and pulls the door open. Sure enough, Craig is standing there— but Stan doesn’t have the time to process that.

“Is your family home?” Craig asks.

“What? Uh, no—”

In a matter of seconds, Craig has pounced. That’s the only way Stan can describe it. In many ways, Craig is like a cat. The way he holds himself, the way he lunges, the way he keeps poised— his eyes, too, fuck, his eyes. Not that Stan can _see_ Craig’s eyes at the current moment, what with their lips locked. Also, both of them have their eyes closed, but that’s beside the point. Stan stumbles backwards, catching Craig’s weight easily. He curls his fingers in the sides of Craig’s sweater, tugging at the fabric until their torsos are flush. Craig might be thin, but he’s still another body, and _fuck_ if Stan doesn’t love that. Craig is the one who makes a conscious effort to turn them, making sure they’re hidden behind the door, which is still wide open and probably letting bugs in. They’re sandwiched between it and the wall, and Stan genuinely has a hard time believing he’s being pinned in a corner by Craig and actually _liking it_.

But, here he is, pinned in a corner by Craig, and _totally loving it_.

Stan lets go of Craig with one hand, trying to blindly swipe the door closed from where they’re perched behind it. Craig certainly doesn’t make it very easy. At Stan’s movement, Craig presses closer. Stan can’t get enough of the pressure, strangely enticed by the idea of being held down. Craig grabs Stan’s ass, squeezing the flesh, and Stan has definitely never felt _that_ before, oh wow. Who knew being manhandled could feel so fantastic, even through jeans?

Suddenly remembering the door, Stan pulls his hand away from it and instead busies himself with pulling off Craig’s hat. Admittedly, he’d been a little worried about how Craig would react to that, but so far, Craig genuinely doesn’t seem to give a shit. Stan takes it a step further, lifting both hands to curl his fingers into Craig’s hair. It’s dry and a little static-y, flattened from the hat, but it’s nothing a little brushing won’t fix. Stan shuffles his fingers through it, combing. Craig breathes out sharply, his lips parting from where they’re pressed firmly into Stan’s, and Stan takes that like the opportunity it is. Stan opens his own mouth, pushing his tongue out and licking across Craig’s bottom lip. Craig invites it, opening his mouth more, tightening his grip on Stan’s ass. Stan bucks his hips. Yeah, that’s it, no more wasting time, he’s going for it.

Stan licks his way into Craig’s mouth until he manages to find Craig’s tongue, brushing his own against it. Craig presses in closer, though apparently something about it distracts him, because he’s not doing much in return. Stan pulls away enough to bite Craig’s lip, which urges him to be more reactive. Soon, they’re back to Frenching. Stan takes control at first, but it doesn’t take long for Craig to regain his spot at the top. Somehow, Craig is suddenly the one with his tongue in Stan’s mouth, and Stan genuinely doesn’t know when _that_ happened, but hey, he’s absolutely not complaining. In fact, if anything, Stan is encouraged. He finally pulls his hands away from Craig’s hair, tracing his fingertips down Craig’s back and around to claw at his sides—

“ _Pfft_.”

Stan stops short, falling very still, with his hands on Craig’s waist. Craig no longer has his tongue in Stan’s mouth. Their lips are still pressed together, but it’s no longer much of a kiss. They just haven’t quite pulled away yet. Experimental, Stan digs his fingers into the spot he’d stopped on. Sure enough, Craig snorts again, shuddering with the suppression of a giggle. Craig finally pulls his face away from Stan’s, apparently moving to push Stan’s hands away, but Stan is too quick. Stan starts to tickle Craig in earnest, which forces Craig to squirm and try pulling away. Stan never thought he’d live to see the day, but it’s true: Craig is laughing. Furthermore, Craig is _ticklish_.

“Stop, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” Craig says, wheezing between rounds of chuckling. Stan finally stops, though it’s with much reluctance, and Craig pulls away completely. Stan has gotten so used to the warmth of another body that he’s shocked at what it feels like to not be in the middle of making out. He watches as Craig recovers. Craig wanders into the living room, taking in deep breaths. Stan finally takes the time to shut and lock the front door.

“You didn’t tell me you were _ticklish_ ,” Stan says, following Craig to the couch. As Craig sits down, Stan hops over the back of it, perching beside Craig. Craig crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, because that’s something I’m just gonna go around telling people,” Craig says.

“Well, I mean, you’ve said weirder.”

“That’s not the point.”

Stan shrugs at that, but doesn’t explicitly reply. He understands what Craig’s getting at, really, though Stan can’t deny that he finds Craig’s secret ticklishness hilarious. In the lull of silence, Stan even attempts to reach and prod his sides again, but Craig has caught on at this point. He slaps Stan’s hand away. “Ow,” Stan says, pulling his hand back.

“If you ever tickle me, I will never kiss you again,” Craig says.

“What if I do it on accident?” Stan asks, just to be difficult. Craig ponders this.

“You better be careful, then,” is how Craig replies. Stan raises his brows. He’s certain Craig is kidding, but at the same time, there’s this deadpan nature about his tone that just tells Stan he’s _totally_ not kidding. Stan makes the abrupt decision that he will simply avoid Craig’s waist in the future. Granted, Stan doesn’t know how long their _friend-like individuals with benefits_ thing is going to last, but… that’s a detail they can mull over at a later date. Or, maybe not. They could just keep doing this forever, Stan wouldn’t mind that.

Stan gasps when Craig suddenly moves, climbing onto his knees and adjusting to straddle Stan’s lap. Having calmed down from the (admittedly, rather electric) make-out session earlier, he feels like he’s being thrown into the deep-end again. That feeling only heightens when Craig cups Stan’s face in his hands and kisses him. By no means is Stan disliking this. In fact, he’s very much liking this. There’s a stirring going on somewhere deep down inside of him, but it feels very suddenly surface-level when Craig nestles himself firmly against Stan’s hips. This kiss is different from the earlier ones, too. It’s slow, more thoughtful and drawn-out in a very leisurely manner. Craig pulls back for air. Stan takes the opportunity to ask, “What was that?”

Craig replies, “A kiss, Marsh.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stan says. “But— like, what happened to talking—”

“I didn’t come over here to talk,” Craig says. He adjusts, momentarily alleviating Stan’s legs from his weight. Stan instinctively chases the contact as it leaves. He feels himself blush. That might have made him look a little desperate. Fortunately, Craig doesn’t seem to notice. Craig settles back down, going so far as to rock forward, and— okay, maybe Craig _did_ notice. Stan chews on the inside of his cheek. “You were the one who said you wanted to kiss, anyway.”

“Okay, I get it,” Stan says. And he does. He gets it. He’s losing interest in conversation, anyway. The fire has been rekindled, spreading smoke from his stomach and into his lungs, making his lips feel like they’re heating. Maybe that’s blood flow; his heart is beating hard. Stan smooths his palms over Craig’s thighs and up to his hips— careful to avoid the danger area of his waist in the process. Stan lifts his head and straightens, capturing Craig’s lips with his own, but it’s fleeting. Craig pulls away after only the allowance of a quick peck. Stan tries again to kiss Craig, but it’s just another repetition of a chaste peck before Craig breaks it off. Stan huffs, slumping back against the couch. He says, “ _Dude_.”

“What happened to talking?” Craig asks, shooting Stan’s words right back at him. Stan groans, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes in exasperation. God, and the frustration doesn’t stop there. Craig chuckles, pulling Stan’s hands back down to his hips and leaning in as close as he can— without actually making contact, that is. Fuck. Stan can _sense_ the brush of Craig’s lips, he’s so close. Okay, so, maybe Stan’s a little addicted to Craig’s mouth. Even if it is stupid, always saying cocky things and being a dick… speaking of dicks, Craig shifts, and Stan hums a soft noise under his breath. Craig dips his head to press his lips against Stan’s ear, mouthing at the skin of his earlobe. Stan never thought he’d be into that, whoa. Then Craig is talking again, low in Stan’s ear. “Or have you changed your mind? Can’t help yourself, huh? Too tempted by sex…”

And, um, okay, this is new, but Stan’s not complaining. Craig’s tongue darts out, wet on the shell of Stan’s ear, cooling and drying quickly once he’s returned to speech.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Craig asks, finally releasing Stan’s hands from his grasp, allowing Stan the freedom to move them from Craig’s hips if he so chose. Not that Stan _would_ choose to do that. He’s much too comfortable gripping here, mindlessly massaging and fidgeting with the belt loops of Craig’s pants. Craig drags his hands up the outsides of Stan’s arms, from his wrists all the way up to his shoulders. A shiver rolls down Stan’s spine, forcing his shoulders to tense. Craig rubs his fingers into Stan’s shoulders, massaging the muscles linking Stan’s shoulders to his neck. His fingers are deft, yet smooth; when he laces his fingers behind Stan’s neck, Stan can feel the natural roughness of male skin. It’s something he never put much thought into prior, the differences between a woman’s skin and a man’s. It’s very… _oh_ , those are Craig’s teeth on his ear. Just like that, though, they’re gone, and Craig is whispering, “Can’t get enough of the touching, can’t get enough of the kissing… are you a whore, Stan?”

 _Dirty talk?_ Stan’s breath catches in his throat. It hooks on something in his lungs, making it very difficult to inhale. All of the air rushes out of his nose. He’d never considered himself to be susceptible to the power of words, but there’s something about these _particular_ words that shove him into a weird physical reaction. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Craig’s jeans, tilting his head to chase the warmth of Craig’s mouth. He only meets neck, though. He supposes he can settle, and settle he does. He presses his face against Craig’s shoulder, breathing in. Craig is still talking. Stan can feel it reverberating in his chest more than he can hear it, at this point.

“You like that, don’t you,” Craig says. Stan knows better than to categorize it as a question, because it isn’t. It’s rhetorical. It’s heating Stan up to the core, rubbing him very right, making him feel lightheaded. “You like being called a whore. What else do you like being called? A slut? Are you willing to be a slut?”

Whoa, okay, there’s an edge to that one that Stan’s not sure about, but… it’s not horrible. He’s fine with rolling with it. Craig’s still mumbling.

“You’re touch-starved,” Craig says, but the tone is different this time. Like it’s an observation. Like it’s  _research_. He curls his fingers into Stan’s hair, pulling Stan’s head back. They make eye-contact, and Stan is immediately drawn to the deep gray of Craig’s irises— the increased width of his pupils, absolutely magnetizing. Stan isn’t looking at Craig’s mouth, but he’s willing to bet that Craig is smirking, or— or _something_. Stan’s ears are burning again. When Craig speaks again, his tone is back to the original depth. “I can feel how hot you are, I can see how red you’re turning, how turned-on you are, just from this.”

Craig leans down, pressing his lips against the pulse point of Stan’s neck, just under his jaw. Craig’s tongue darts out, prodding hot, slick marks, ghosts of hickeys that won’t leave evidence. Stan clenches his teeth as he swallows, loving the pressure of Craig against his throat.

“Bitch,” Craig says, punctuating the word with a bite. Stan gasps, not expecting it, and immediately lifts his head, removing his hands from Craig’s hips and pushing at Craig’s shoulders.

“Whoa, too far,” Stan says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, something shifts. Craig’s attitude snaps into something very different, withdrawing from Stan’s neck and letting go of Stan’s hair. His expression has fallen unreadable once more, no longer hinting at masochism. In fact, he looks a little— like… concerned? And, weirdly enough, Stan likes that better. He hadn’t realized it before, having been a little caught in the heat of the moment, but he definitely isn’t a fan of the whole… power imbalance thing. Like, he _really_ isn’t into that.

“Too far? Okay,” Craig says. He shifts, lifting his weight from Stan’s lap enough for the blood to rush back to Stan’s legs. Jesus, Stan hadn’t even realized Craig was cutting off his circulation, but now that it’s returning, he sure does feel the ache. “Sorry, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, I didn’t even realize you were cutting off my circulation,” Stan voices. Craig stares at him, confused.

“What?” Craig asks. Stan blinks. Craig shakes his head. “No, I meant the _too far_ thing, are you okay?”

“Oh,” Stan says. “Yeah, I’m okay, just not as into it as I thought I was… say, when did you get so… _that_ , anyway?”

“Fun fact,” Craig says, “Porn is good for research purposes.”

Stan can’t help it. He snorts. “What, do you memorize crappy porn scripts for kicks, or something?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Craig says. “Are you still okay with making out?”

Stan’s voice is breathy as he whispers, “Hell yeah.”

Just like that, they resume. It starts out slow, much like Craig’s teasing when he’d first crawled into Stan’s lap, but different. This time, the slowness is from an attempt at regaining the mood, allowing their hands to roam wherever they may, exploring and kissing and just _doing_. Craig’s weight returns to Stan’s lap, and Stan’s hands return to Craig’s hips. Stan draws his grip back, trying his hand at groping Craig’s ass. Craig makes a soft humming noise, something small and pleasurable, which Stan considers yet another little victory to go in the books. It pushes him to be more adventurous, going so far as to try and bite Craig’s bottom lip like he had when Stan was still being pinned to the wall. The reaction Stan receives to that little experiment is slightly more physical: Craig draws an intake of air, presses as close as possible, their chests pushed as close as possible. It’s so addicting, having someone else’s chest against Stan’s own. It’s hot. And sensitive. Sturdy. But mostly hot.

Stan’s not _exactly_ sure when they started grinding, but… again, no complaints.

Stan pulls Craig’s hips flush against his own, tightening the seal between them. They move with it, shifting together rather infinitesimally, but it’s more than enough. It might sound weird, but they aren’t really, uh,  _going at it,_ for the end goal of an orgasm. Stan isn’t, at least— he doesn’t know what’s going on in Craig’s head… though, now that he thinks about it, the idea of, err, _getting there_ , with Craig is _really_ nice. The heat envelops Stan’s abdomen, curling just beneath his navel, heavy in his hips, and he is _absolutely_ certain he’s never felt arousal quite this deeply before. Craig pulls away from the kiss for what Stan can only assume is air, and with the adjustment of them, Stan lets out a soft grunt. He circles his hands behind Craig, absentminded in his fidgeting with the back section of Craig’s waistband.

“So, dog tags, huh?” Craig asks, and that grunt of Stan’s turns into a low groan. Stan’s head falls back against the couch’s backrest.

“I swear to god, if you try to dirty-talk about those,” Stan says. Craig snorts.

“I won’t, that’s weird,” Craig says. “I’m just trying to— hey, get your hands out of my pants, asshole.”

Stan pulls his fingers away from where he'd been trying to infiltrate the back section of Craig’s waistband. Okay, so that’s a no-go. Roger that.

“As I was saying,” Craig says, “I'm _trying_  to initiate conversation, mister talks-a-lot.”

Stan groans again, his eyes slipping shut. He furrows his brows. “Jesus, why are you so hung-up on the talking thing?”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Craig says. And, well… Craig’s not _wrong_. It’s just annoying. Infuriatingly annoying, distressingly infuriatingly annoying. “So, tell me, what’s the backstory?”

“This is _really_ not a coital conversation,” Stan says.

“We got time.”

Embarrassingly enough, Stan blurts, “God, I wish I could _shut you up_.”

Craig stops moving, and that gets Stan to _really_ process what he’d just said. His own hips still, though they ache to return to the gentle ministrations they’d been up to. He manages to keep himself under control, however, considering he’s almost certain he just made a huge ass of himself, and now isn’t the time for— uh, _finishing their business._

Stan opens his eyes, blinking through the blurred daze he’d worked himself into. He’s met with those gray eyes of Craig’s. He expects to see anger, but he doesn’t. There’s something else, something a lot more… like, shallow. Craig’s lips are red, full from their kissing, parted from talking.

“Shut me up, huh?” Craig returns, tilting his head. His cheeks are deep, a rouge that mixes well with the caramel of his skin. Craig shifts up again, even shifting _back_ , like he’s prepared to… wait, hold on, is he—?

He totally is. He’s shifting, so slowly, from straddling Stan on the couch to kneeling on the floor in front of Stan, his hands coming to settle on Stan’s knees. And there’s that smirk again, that ridiculous, cocky, strangely sultry, look. Stan can't help it; his mouth falls open.

Eyes half-lidded, tongue darting out to lick his own lips damp, Craig asks, “Do you still want me to suck your dick?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep. still doing this.  
> there was an attempt.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig gives Stan a blowjob. Craig problem-solves and Stan gets embarrassed.
> 
> Also, denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blowjob.  
> consider yourselves warned.

Apparently Craig really likes sucking dick. Stan didn’t know that. Granted, Stan doesn’t know very many things about Craig at all, so he supposes it isn’t exactly _strange_ that there are still surprises he’s unused to.

Then again, maybe Stan is jumping to conclusions. Craig has never once outright verbally expressed his affinity for sucking dick— it’s just a hunch that Stan has, because every time they meet up to mess around, it always ends up happening. Like, without fail. It’s basically a routine at this point. They meet up, they make out, Craig sucks Stan’s dick, Stan offers to return the favor, Craig denies, and then they cuddle. To put it simply, it’s safe. Craig seems to like it, and Stan _definitely_ likes it. Does he feel a little weird that Craig never lets him return the favor? A little. In a way, it makes Stan feel like kind of a dick. But he’s pretty sure he’d be even _more_ of a dick if he didn’t respect Craig’s wishes, right?

Right. 

Also, he can’t keep entertaining those thought trains. As much as he’d love to lose himself in the logistics of his stupid feelings, doing so will only turn him off. Considering Craig is currently blowing him, Stan kind of _can’t_ risk the consequences of that decision. He’s having a hard enough time keeping himself in the mood as it is. While this isn’t the first time they’ve holed themselves up in Stan’s bedroom, it _is_ the first time they’ve messed around when Stan’s parents were downstairs. It might sound stupid, and Stan _knows_ it might sound stupid, but he can’t stop thinking about the _what-ifs_ of his mom walking in, or— oh, shit, his _dad_. That would be an unpleasant future-conversation just waiting to happen and Stan is _really_ not down for that, okay? He’s really not—

Suddenly, Craig’s mouth is missing from his dick. It throws Stan for a loop, the air shocking him from the warmth he’d become so accustomed to. The remaining saliva cools and dries quickly, and it’s not exactly a pleasant feeling. He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking at where Craig is perched further down the bed, his palms and knees pressed into the mattress, keeping him upright. He seems ready to back down from completing the blowjob, which wouldn’t be the first time. Stan sticks to that conclusion and reaches down to pull his underwear and sweatpants back up. He doesn’t even get to touch the fabric before Craig slaps Stan’s hands away and leans in. Stan expects the blowjob to continue, but it doesn’t. Craig just sits there. He looks like he’s puppy-guarding Stan’s dick and, honestly, Stan finds that hilarious.

And, also, weirdly hot. Like, _weirdly_ hot.

“What are you doing?” Stan asks, biting back the urge to laugh. He keeps his volume down, because he doesn’t want his parents to have any excuse to come up here and ruin this. Craig apparently takes an inordinate amount of offense in the seemingly innocent question, his brows twitching downward.

“What am _I_ doing?” Craig replies. “What are _you_ doing?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m not doing anything,” Stan says. Craig rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“I know,” Craig says. “That’s the point, Marsh, I’m blowing you and you’ve barely twitched once, which is not good blowie etiquette.”

Okay, so, Stan totally gets what Craig is talking about, but there’s one thing about that he can’t ignore. “I’m sorry, did you just unironically use the term ‘ _blowie_ ’?”

“What’s it to you?” Craig asks. Stan looks between his dick and Craig’s mouth.

“Kind of a lot, actually—” Stan cuts off, suddenly rather enthralled by the way Craig’s throat moves when he swallows. Which Craig is doing, right now. He’s swallowing. But he’s not swallowing on Stan’s dick, and that’s kind of upsetting. Stan squirms higher up onto the bed, sitting up a little more, trying in vain to hint to Craig to keep doing the blowjob thing. When that doesn’t work, he goes direct. “Whatever, okay, please keep blowing me, I’m really—”

Craig grabs Stan’s hips and pulls him back down. The suddenness of it forces Stan’s arms to give out, and before he knows it, he’s laying on his back and—

Stan gasps, his back arching automatically when Craig’s mouth goes back to work on Stan’s penis. Craig seems pleased by this, if the little hum that _travels straight through Stan’s very core_ has to do with anything. At this point, though, Stan doesn’t care if it does or doesn’t, because it feels really, really nice either way. In a matter of seconds, though, the nice sensations are over. Craig lifts his head, letting go of Stan in the process. Stan whines, just to hit home the point that Craig totally crushed his soul there.

“What are you thinking about?” Craig asks. Stan, still recovering from the surprise mouth all up on his junk, gives Craig a blank look. Craig elaborates. “You’re distracted by something, what is it?”

Stan opens his mouth—

“And don’t say you’re not thinking about anything, because it’s obvious you are, and I don’t like liars.”

—and proceeds to re-plan the words he’d planned on saying. Stan glances over to the door, which is closed, but he doesn’t have a lock on it anymore thanks to some incidents in his past, and it all spills pretty quickly. “I’m freaked out that my parents are gonna walk in,” Stan says. “Which, like, could totally happen, dude, they come in at the weirdest times and, um… I don’t want them to see us— uh, you— I mean, me?”

“You don’t want them to see someone sucking your dick,” Craig says. Stan cringes at the blunt manner in which Craig had said it, but ultimately nods in confirmation. Craig pushes himself up onto his knees, and for a second, Stan is afraid that Craig is going to, like, stop, which makes Stan panic a little because he doesn’t want to cut this short due to his stupid irrational fears, or whatever. So, when Craig starts saying, “Do you want to—”

Stan blurts, “No!”

Craig doesn’t do anything for a second. The expression on his face is lost. “Dude—”

“I don’t want to stop,” Stan says. “In fact, the last thing I want to do is stop, okay? But, like, if you want to stop, I’m not gonna force you to keep going, because that’d be a dick move and I really don’t want to make you do anything you don’t wanna—”

“How about you let me finish my sentences,” Craig says, and Stan shuts up. “I was going to ask if you wanted to hide me.”

Well _that_ doesn’t sound any better, but when Stan opens his mouth to object, Craig has already started to move. He turns around and leans off of the foot of the bed, fishing on the floor for something. Stan, subconscious about being so exposed, sits up and pulls his underwear back on. Craig comes back up with the blanket, which they’d kicked off of the bed and forgotten about at some point.

“Get back down here, idiot,” Craig says. Without question, Stan follows orders. He slides himself back down, laying on his back the way he’d been previously. Craig situates the blanket, gets back into blowjob position, and pulls the blanket over his head. He holds it out for Stan to take, to which he does. Stan takes a moment to admire the idea. The blanket almost entirely hides Craig, and also covers most of Stan's torso. Halfway up to his chest, approximately. While it’s obvious there’s another person down there, the fact that Stan is receiving head from Craig is no longer on display. It’s very minimal protection, but it’s about all they can do, and, honestly? Stan feels better. He relaxes a little more.

Craig must feel that relaxation, because he immediately starts to get back to it. He pulls Stan’s dick out from his underwear, and _oh that’s a tongue on the underside of his_ — Stan swallows, tipping his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes. It’s hot that he can’t see Craig. It’s hot that there’s no way for him to be able to tell what Craig will do next. It’s freaky, too, but it’s mostly just _really_ hot.

Craig takes his time getting back to the main event, going so far as to kiss down from Stan’s navel to the base of his penis, and then mouthing his way up and _fuck_ … Stan breathes out, shaky, his fingers clutching to the top of the blanket for dear life. His brows furrow without him telling them to, paying attention to the way Craig’s hands have started to rub over the skin of Stan’s abdomen. Stan finds it weird just how much he likes the way that feels. The wet heat of Craig’s mouth sinking fully over Stan’s dick, the swirling adjustment of Craig’s tongue against the shaft, the suction and adjustment every time Craig swallows— it’s a lot. In a good way. In a great way.

And the way Craig keeps caressing him. The way Craig’s palms smooth down from Stan’s chest, across his stomach and over his sides… the firmness of the touch travels, until Craig is gripping Stan’s thighs, applying slow pressure that builds and then releases, and then he drags those _fucking hands up_ to repeat it. Stan’s muscles constrict with the pleasure, but it’s more than that. It’s more than just _pleasure_ , it’s more than just another good feeling or eventual orgasm. The sensuality is more than Stan can handle, and in some ways, that scares him. It scares him in a creeping way, that spreads through his skin like a spiderweb and makes his stomach twist in a vaguely uncomfortable way but it’s not _uncomfortable_ , y’know?

“Fuck,” Stan huffs, his voice barely audible through the stillness of the moment. His body writhes without him telling it to, bucking up, leading to Craig’s _fantastic_ hands holding his hips down, probably to keep from choking or something and Stan wants to apologize or ask if he’s okay or _something_ but all he can manage is a whimper of, “ _Craig_.”

There’s another hum from Craig. It echoes loud and clear, thrumming over Stan’s nerves like a second heartbeat. Stan is tingling all over. He bites his bottom lip, unsure of whether he’s trying to ground himself or keep himself from making any more noises. His breath is coming faster, harder, hotter, heavy in the air in front of him. He draws in more oxygen to fulfill the amazing ache of his muscles, to satisfy the growing need of his blood, rushing rapidly through his body and filling every part of him until he feels like he’s going to burst, or explode, or—

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

 _Oh, oh, oh, ohohoh_ —

Stan can’t help it; he moans. The pleasure rolls over him in a particularly overwhelming wave, and for a second, he thinks he’s going to cum, he— oh, _fuck_ , he’s going to— Craig pulls his mouth off of Stan’s dick for just a second, and that allows Stan’s nerves to cool significantly, even in the very short time frame. He doesn’t orgasm, even when Craig resumes blowing him, although he kind of feels like he’s about to. The sensation is just as intense as it had been before, but the pause was respite and— “Oh my god,” Stan says, instinctively trying to curl his fingers in Craig’s hair. All he’s met with, however, is the soft fabric of the blanket. He makes an annoyed noise, reaching his hands back up to tug at his _own_ hair, instead. His hips have started to try bucking up again, but Craig’s grip remains firm, keeping him pinned.

And then.

The fucking.

Door opens.

Stan snaps his attention over to the door, where his mother is standing, one hand on the knob and the other on the door frame. She stops after a second, just staring at them, this _look_ on her face like she’s totally caught off-guard and, hell, she probably is. Stan’s face goes red, and not _just_ because his mom totally caught them, but also because Craig _is still fucking sucking ohmygod_. As subtly as possible, Stan kicks Craig in the ass with the heel of his left foot. Thankfully, Craig gets the message. He pulls off of Stan’s dick, but doesn’t come up from under the blanket or ask _what the fuck’s your damage_. He just pulls off, stays put, and doesn’t speak.

So, this is a horrible time for Stan to find out he likes Craig’s obedience.

Also, Stan hasn’t looked away from his mom. He wants to (very much wants to), but he can’t. It’s like a car crash, and he can’t look away. Sharon, her brows now furrowed, gives Stan this _extremely_ solid look, like she knows _everything_. She probably does. Oh, fuck. This isn’t how Stan expected to come out.

Um…

But he’s not gay, though, so, it doesn’t count, anyway.

“Who’s under there?” asks Sharon. Stan swallows thickly, glancing down to Craig. Shit, he’d totally forgotten about the blanket for a second. He breathes a weirdly relieved sigh after that, even though this ordeal is undoubtedly _far_ from over. At least she doesn’t know for certain who’s going down on him, right? At least there’s still that little smidgen of privacy, right? And at least Stan isn’t caught bare-butt. See? There are bright sides to this situation.

Ha. That’s a funny joke.

“Is Wendy under there?” Sharon asks, her knowing look intensifying. Stan’s face goes even redder from just how much hardcore embarrassment he’s dealing with. He opens his mouth to respond, but stops short. He has no idea how the fuck to answer that, what the hell? What’s he supposed to do? Lie and say _yeah mom don’t worry ell-oh-ell, I’m just getting blown by my ex, no biggie?_ Or tell the truth and say, _nah I got a dude under here, hey, Craig, come up and meet my mom?_

Fuck that noise.

Fuck that noise _so hard._

Stan feels Craig adjust and fucking panics because he can _feel him_ breathing in under that blanket.

“Hello, Missus Marsh,” Craig says, his voice muffled significantly by the fluffy fabric encasing him. Stan slaps a palm over his own face, trying to hide from everything. His face is so red it hurts. His cheeks are throbbing and he could totally cry. But he won’t. Because that’d be lame.

Lamer than this already is.

Because, let’s be honest here, this is lame as shit.

“Hello, Craig,” Sharon responds. Stan changes his face-palm into a different action, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes. How the fuck did she recognize Craig just by his voice? That’s a rhetorical question. Craig has kind of a distinctive voice, doesn’t he? “Are you staying for dinner?”

“No, ma’am,” Craig responds. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stan mumbles.

There is a pause before Sharon says, “Uh-huh.”

“Please don’t tell dad,” Stan says.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,” she says. “Be safe.”

And then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

The atmosphere remains stiff, even minutes after she’s gone. Stan would look up, or _move_ , but he genuinely can’t. He’s paralyzed. This is fucking humiliating. Stan has never felt _more_ humiliated than he does right now, and he’s done some pretty dumb shit in his life.

“Did she just say ‘be safe’?” Craig asks a few seconds later. Stan groans, finally able to distance himself from what just happened enough to shift, dropping his hands to lay beside him on the mattress. “What, she’s just… okay with this?”

“I guess,” Stan says. “I mean, we’re eighteen, right? We’re adults, so…”

Craig doesn’t say anything to that for a few seconds. He shifts around beneath the blanket for a bit, tracing patterns into Stan’s thighs. He must be doing it mindlessly. It tickles a little. “If my parents were okay with this,” Craig begins, quiet and barely audible, “I’d be sooo happy.”

Stan furrows his brows, opening his mouth to speak, to reply to that, but he doesn’t really get the chance to. Craig has started to grasp more meaningfully at the flesh of Stan’s thighs, reigniting a very tiny memory of their earlier spark. Stan exhales, letting himself relax into the pillow and mattress.

“Another question,” Craig says. Stan hums in response. He flinches when Craig suddenly pokes the underside of his cock. “How the hell are you still this hard?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Stan says, his voice taking on a breathy quality. His body is conflicted, stuck between _wow that just happened, I’m scarred for life_ and _okay but like I haven’t cum yet dude_. It’s really weird, and he can’t say that he’s all that into it, but he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. The heart wants what the heart wants. Or, the dick wants what the… yeah, he’s not finishing that thought.

There’s another shift, and Craig’s breath is suddenly very close to the apex of Stan’s left thigh. “Can I finish you off?” Craig asks. His tone is so light, so gentle, like he’s _timid_ and genuinely _hopeful_ that he can. It, like many other things that have happened in the past few weeks, is weird. But it isn’t a bad weird. It’s a good weird. A weird that makes Stan’s stomach do a thing. He has to swallow down a sudden onslaught of nausea. Then, just like that, he’s okay again. Huh. Alright. Strange.

Stan nods before realizing Craig can’t see him. “Uh, yeah—” and that’s all he manages to choke out before Craig is back at it, taking Stan right into his mouth and yep. Yep, yeah, this is happening, and it’s fine. Stan slowly reaches up to grab the corners of the pillow his head rests on, spreading his legs a little wider to give Craig more access— or to feel more, or something, he doesn’t know. He just knows he likes it, and Craig seems to like it, and that’s really all that matters.

It doesn’t take long to get Stan worked up again. Craig’s soft caressing and little licks are more than enough. Craig’s palm smooths over the surface of Stan’s stomach, just like it had all those times earlier, and Stan whimpers. That contact paired with the beautiful slide of Craig’s mouth over his dick is so _good_. Craig’s hands are moving, though, rubbing wherever they please, and it’s lovely in so many different ways but there’s one specific way that Stan prefers and suddenly he’s shy, afraid of speaking up about what he _really really_ likes versus what he just naturally likes. He tries to blindly reach down, but the blanket gets in the way and he’d forgotten about that again, the blanket, the stupid cover that they don’t even _need_ to be there anymore. Stan grabs the top of the blanket and starts to push it off. Craig senses the change and follows in Stan’s footsteps, lifting one hand to pull the blanket off and proceeding to kick it down off the bed again _while never stopping once_. Craig reaches back down to continue the looping ministrations over Stan’s hips, but Stan catches his hand before he can go back to the repetition.

Stan doesn’t remember looking down at Craig, but he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that they’re making eye contact. It’s a little strange to see Craig like that after so long of just blanket. It’s weird to remember that Craig is a real live actual _breathing person_ , and it’s _weird_ to see that real live actual breathing person sucking him off, bobbing his head in gentle ministrations, and looking up at him through hazing, blurred eyes. He looks so wonderful, Craig does. He looks so amazing, with his cheeks flushed and his hair mussed, fluffed from the blanket that had been covering him. The skin of his arms is such a rich color. It looks so soft, like it’d be velvet against Stan’s fingers. Stan glances over to where he’s still gripping Craig’s wrist, a reminder of the fact that he’d planned on telling Craig what felt the best. He abandons the idea, instead letting go and allowing Craig to have the control back. Craig takes it with ease, and now Stan can _see_ what it _looks like_ when Craig touches him the way he’s been doing all this time, stroking his fingers over the comparative lightness of Stan’s flesh.

It’s weird. It’s so, so weird.

Stan reaches down, settling his palm over Craig’s head. Craig goes back to pinning Stan’s hips down, apparently preparing for Stan to start bucking, but Stan doesn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that, he couldn’t, he doesn’t want to hurt Craig, or risk hurting Craig, or even _think_ about the _possibility_ of hurting Craig. He just shuffles his fingers through Craig’s hair, feeling it against his hand and palm and catches in little brushes on his wrist. For a minute, he forgets. He forgets the sensations, the heat of Craig’s mouth and the wet of his tongue, the tingling needle-pricks of his hands, making him feel like a pincushion wherever Craig touches. He forgets it all, encompassed by the way Craig looks.

And, fuck, it feels so good.

“I—” Stan begins, but cuts off quickly, running out of air even though he’s taking in extra breaths to compensate for the activity. He shivers, it rolls down his spine and echoes in his hips, and he’s suddenly very grateful that Craig is pinning them down because he wouldn’t be able to control himself on his own. His body urges a change in position, preparing for finishing without him consciously thinking about it. He starts to sit up, using his free hand to push and keep him upright, the heel of his palm digging into the firmness of his mattress. His head rolls to the side, his cheek pressing against his own shoulder, breathing heavily into the room. He pets the back of Craig’s head, his fingers twitching to curl through Craig’s hair. “I’m gonna— oh, fuck, I’m— _mmn!_ ”

Stan can’t cut off the moan that breaks through, because Craig isn’t backing off at all. In fact, Craig pushes his head down further, ignoring Stan’s urging to stop before he finishes in Craig’s mouth because that can’t _taste good_ , can it? But Craig doesn’t seem to care. Craig keeps going, his tongue circling, his eyes shutting, his face flushing more than it already had been and Stan leans forward, chasing the contact and trying to thrust up but he can’t because Craig is holding him and it’s safe, it’s safe, they’re safe, he’s safe, Craig is safe and Craig is— Craig is— _Craig is_ —

Orgasm rolls up on Stan, crashing into him as a wave, and he can’t control his mouth as he moans, “ _You’re beautiful_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Craig mess around even more. Stan wants to help, and Craig is reluctant.
> 
> Also, conflict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> handjob n feelings  
> consider yourselves warned

“Can I do you this time?” Stan asks. He thinks it to be harmless enough, but Craig reacts like Stan just tried to punch him. His expression twitches into a frown and he pushes Stan off of him, making Stan topple and land clumsily on his side on the mattress. Stan pushes himself back up, watching Craig get off of the bed and start searching for his sweatshirt that they’d discarded onto the floor at some point.

They usually don’t strip each other, but this time had been a realm of firsts for both of them. Nothing too extreme, though. Simple stuff, like the fact that they had a conversation and ate lunch before, uh— getting down to business. Or the fact that Stan had been the one to start it. Or the fact that they’d basically just been cuddling and kissing for a solid half hour without any sort of heavy-petting. It’s been a calm afternoon. It was only a couple of minutes ago that Craig got fed up with something and tore off his sweater. In that moment, maybe it’d been a bit of “monkey see, monkey do”, because Stan had decided it’d be a perfect idea to take off his own shirt. _Not_ sweatshirt, he hadn’t worn one today. He pulled off his _regular shirt_ , leaving his torso bare. The only reason he was okay with it is because his parents aren’t home right now. Ever since Stan’s mom walked in on them a week ago, they’ve been much more cautious of when and how they go about their business.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Stan asks. Craig finally finds his sweatshirt and tugs it on, his mouth pursed and jaw tight like he’s just tasted something sour. Stan doesn’t understand why Craig has been so touchy lately. As far as Stan is concerned, nothing has changed, and he doesn’t really know if it’s his place to ask, but there is a certain note to the prevalence of it that concerns him. He scoots off of the bed, pulling his sweatpants higher up on his hips. Craig scoffs and turns towards the door. Stan furrows his brows, following. “I’m _serious_ , what’s going on with you?”

“What’s going on with me?” Craig replies, spinning on his heel. Stan, having been right behind Craig, takes a step back to avoid getting hit with an arm or something. There’s anger in Craig’s tone, snappish and sharp— his expression isn’t much better, going from sour to mildly offended in a matter of seconds. “When did we ever talk about you _doing me?_ ”

The intensity of the undertones has Stan reeling, glancing away to try and understand what Craig is getting at. “Um, all the time?” Stan answers, though he sounds more unsure of himself than he’d been going for. Craig opens his mouth to reply, but Stan cuts him off, unable to keep himself from trying to explain. “I don’t get what’s wrong here, I just asked a question! You can say no if you want, I don’t care, even if I don’t get why you would—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Craig asks. “Do you feel entitled to my ass?”

“Entitled to your— _what?_ ” Stan shakes his head, lifting his hands up in confusion. “No, I don’t feel entitled to your _anything!_ Christ, did you say your _ass?_ I’m not talking about your ass!”

“What else would you be talking about?” Craig replies. When Stan opens his mouth to reply, Craig starts talking again. “You just asked to _fuck me_ , and since I don’t exactly have a goddamn vagina, that’s the only shit you have access to— not that you actually have access to it either way, _idiot_.”

Realization dawns on Stan quickly and suddenly, hitting him in the back of the head like a wayward basketball. He blinks the lingering confusion from his eyes, which widen as he understands where he’d messed up here. “I wasn’t asking about fucking you,” Stan says, “I was asking about _blowing_ you.”

Something in Craig’s brain seems to short-circuit. He appears to come to his own realization, possibly of the way this whole situation was just a big misunderstanding, or whatever. Either way, Craig seems to get it, and Stan definitely gets it, and now they’re left in this weird limbo of post-argument-where-do-we-go-now? Stan has issues trying to figure out how exactly Craig got the impression that Stan wanted to have sex with him. Full-on sex, that is. Like, penetra… yeah. Thankfully, Stan doesn’t really have to say much. Craig takes initiative, more or less, though is still visibly uncomfortable. “You want to blow me,” Craig says, though Stan knows it’s supposed to be a question.

“Yes,” Stan says. “That’s what I said.”

It’s quiet. For a beat, for two beats, or maybe it counts as a silence, because the air is still and Stan doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to fix this. He doesn’t know when this became so complicated. He doesn’t know when they lost the logic and started reacting based on feeling. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know if Craig knows, either. Stan had gone under the pretense that nothing had changed, but he knows that something has changed. Whether it’s important, something has _changed_ , and among the millions of other things Stan doesn’t know, it becomes glaringly unclear that Stan _doesn’t know_ if he hates it or loves it. So, ultimately, he decides to ignore it.

Craig glances away. His gaze is lowered, examining the carpet for a good while. Stan has to fight back the urge to reach out and touch Craig, but even with the fighting, it doesn’t work. He puts a hand on Craig’s shoulder. The contact must startle Craig, because he looks up. Stan is drawn to his eyes, still, even if they haven’t changed at all since the first time he looked at them. He no longer tingles when he thinks about Craig. The needles that poke wherever Craig touches have disappeared. The only thing that remains is a warmth, an all-encompassing tightness in his stomach and lungs.

“You can’t,” Craig says. Stan feels himself frown a little. Craig straightens up in his posture, looking a little more confident in himself, though still quiet and different in the monotone. “No, you do not have permission to suck my dick.”

And, okay, that was very formal, but Stan doesn’t have an issue with it. Craig can say no, it’s fine. “Okay,” Stan says. “I’m not gonna make you if you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Craig says. “I know.”

“But do you really?” Stan asks. “Because, like, you don’t really say no to things, you just kinda freak and try to leave, or flip me off.”

Craig doesn’t say anything to that. Stan doesn’t know why he would expect him to, it’s not exactly easy to respond to that. Craig must understand it to be true. He’s observant, he notices things. Then again, who has a perfect understanding of all of their own behaviors?

“Why don’t you want me to?” Stan asks. Craig only shrugs, but Stan can tell there’s something more to it than just a halfhearted _I don’t know_. “What are you afraid of?”

Maybe it was bold to assume Craig is afraid of something, but it’s the only thing Stan can think of. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Craig says. “I just don’t want to.”

“Okay, well…” Stan glances towards he bed. Maybe he makes himself a little obvious, because Craig makes a purposeful move to start taking his sweater off again. Stan keeps his hand on Craig’s shoulder, though, not letting go. He doesn’t know why he does, he just _does_ , and that keeps Craig from being able to fully take it off. So, Craig halts, lowering the tension that had built in his shoulders and letting his hands fall back to his sides. Stan watches him move. “Is there anything that you want to do? That I can maybe… help you with?”

Another shrug from Craig. There’s more there, there’s always more there. Craig is just a very internal person, if Stan’s impression of him is correct. With that, Stan decides that a more direct route might be the best option.

“May I kiss you?” Stan asks. Almost immediately, Craig nods. Stan lifts his hand from Craig’s shoulder and instead presses it to Craig’s face, cupping his cheek. Stan leans in, pressing his lips to Craig’s. Practically in sync, their eyes close, and that’s it. They kiss each other, just a simple, relatively chaste press that doesn’t seem like it’ll go anywhere. Except, that’s unrealistic, isn’t it? Even in Stan’s mind, he knows that to be a foreign concept. Whenever they kiss, it almost always goes somewhere, and this time is no exception. It takes a minute for Stan to try and take it to the next level, because he’s afraid he might do something wrong, or scare Craig off, or something. He brings his other hand up to cup the other side of Craig’s face, and when Craig doesn’t shy away, Stan becomes more brave. He starts to back up, taking careful steps, blind in his way of leading them to the bed.

Craig follows closely, keeping their mouths locked, pressing his palms over Stan’s shoulders and then pulling them down to his pectorals. Stan, having forgotten the fact that he’d taken off his shirt earlier, flinches at the cold of Craig’s hands on his chest. He snickers at his own reaction, which causes Craig to snort at the stupidity of it, and in a matter of seconds, they’ve climbed onto the bed. Stan sits with his back against the headboard, and Craig climbs up to straddle his lap. This position is natural for them, and their hips slot together almost perfectly. Maybe that’s just Stan’s stupid brain talking, though. Maybe it just feels perfect because it feels _good_ , but at this point, what does it matter?

Craig has his arms looped around Stan’s neck, which forces them almost too close to be able to breathe properly, but neither of them mind it. It helps, in a weird way. It’s nice. Stan trails his hands down to Craig’s hips, being careful around his waist so there’s no tickling of any sort to fuck this up. Stan still hasn’t forgotten about that. It was almost two months ago, but he still hasn’t forgotten about it. Craig doesn’t like being tickled.

Stan opens his mouth and darts his tongue across the partition of Craig’s lips. Craig opens his mouth in return, and Stan presses in, licking across the fronts of Craig’s teeth and prodding at Craig’s tongue. Today, he tastes like caramel. Or, maybe it’s butterscotch— Craig has an affinity for those candies, and he comes over sometimes, with them in his pockets or with one already in his mouth. Sometimes, Stan thinks Craig does that just to tease him. Just to force him to wait the extra few minutes before they can kiss.

Sometimes, Stan feels selfish.

Stan pulls away from the kiss, just enough to nuzzle the side of Craig’s jaw, his eyes still mostly closed but able to see through his lashes the lingering effects of kissing on Craig’s face, the dampness of Craig’s lips from saliva and the rouge that overtakes his cheeks. Craig still has his eyes closed, and Stan circles his fingers on Craig’s hips, mapping the structure of them, finding where the bones can be felt through the skin, through the jeans.

“Craig,” Stan says, mouthing at the side of Craig’s neck. Craig grunts his response. Stan takes that as permission to proceed with the question. “Craig, can I, like… touch your butt?”

“What is this, _Finding Nemo?_ ” Craig asks.

“No,” Stan says. “I just— y’know, I really wanna… touch your butt.”

“Call it an ass like a normal person,” Craig mumbles.

“Is, uh, is that a no, or…?”

“For fuck’s sake,” says Craig. He takes matters into his own hands, grabbing Stan’s wrists and tugging them back until Stan has his palms pressed on the flesh of Craig’s ass. Stan likes the way it feels, even though the jeans are in the way, but he’s not going to just up and push his hands into Craig’s pants. They have to work up to that, if it’s ever going to go there. Stan’s never so much as seen Craig without a shirt on, so the idea of Craig ever allowing Stan to pull down his pants is distant at best.

It doesn’t take long for them to start kissing again, their mouths finding each other almost instinctively. Stan rolls into it, digs his fingers into Craig’s bottom, trails the touch to the muscles of Craig’s thighs, experiments with different holds and waves of pressure. In a matter of seconds, Stan has a pretty decent map of what gets Craig buzzing. Gentle pressure, rhythmic rubbing. Craig actually breathes out a soft noise when Stan hooks his hands underneath and pulls him forward, continuing the pressure that keeps them connected and, essentially, dry-humping. Stan bites at Craig’s bottom lip, dragging the flesh softly between his teeth, paying attention to Craig’s reaction all the while. Craig doesn’t seem enticed by the bite at first. Experimentally, Stan nips a little harder, and Craig whines. Stan pulls away, alarmed. “Shit,” he whispers, studying Craig’s face, which has turned much darker at this point. Craig flicks his eyes up, open, irises slim and pupils wide, dark.

“Do that again,” Craig says, and although it’s breathy, it’s basically an order. Without question, Stan does, closing the distance between them and biting Craig’s lip, rolling it between his teeth, before letting it go. Upon request, he does it again, and when he automatically tries a fourth time, Craig leans in first, bites Stan’s lip sharply, and says, “No.”

To which Stan replies, “Okay,” because he wants to respect boundaries. Also, Craig’s teeth hurt, and he was absolutely not prepared for punishment like that. He’d like to _not_ bleed if he can avoid it. He kisses Craig apologetically, which Craig returns quickly, whether in his own apology or an acceptance of Stan’s.

At some point, Stan realizes he’s been neglecting his commitment to Craig’s ass. He starts the squeezing again, gentle and additive in how he approaches the grip, eventually tugging Craig as close as possible. He tries to find a good angle for them to be able to grind, but it’s surprisingly difficult to do. Something slips, and Stan finds himself having slipped down a little, with Craig a bit more bent over top of him to keep the kisses going. The next time Stan pulls him closer by his butt, Craig moans, thrusting his hips down into Stan’s. Stan gasps on principle, feeling the way Craig slides _so close_ to his erection. The anticipation of the feeling was enough to get his body to prematurely react. Stan doesn’t know if Craig knows any of this, though, because he seems a little preoccupied with his own little movements, bucking slowly, wholly, his fingers curling into Stan’s sheets. Stan doesn’t get it, at first. He doesn’t know what Craig finds so good. But then he realizes that Craig’s dick is lined up pretty perfectly with Stan’s left thigh in this position.

Stan tries to lift his thigh up to meet Craig’s thrusts, but it’s more difficult than it seems, and the shifting must wake Craig up from whatever hole he’d fallen into, because he stops almost immediately. Panting, Craig adjusts. Stan wants to tell him not to, to tell him to keep doing whatever feels good, but he comes up with a better idea. They adjust so they’re more upright, closer to the way they’d been settled earlier, with Stan’s spine straight against the headboard again. Craig goes in for a kiss, and Stan allows it for a second, but soon pulls away and asks, “Can I touch your dick?”

Craig goes stiff, and not in the good way. He pulls up a bit, their faces now no longer mere inches from each other. There’s a moment, or maybe a few moments, where they just breathe. Stan doesn’t pull him closer or move, and Craig just sits in Stan’s lap. Stan starts to chew on his bottom lip in nervousness, but he quickly stops because it’s still tender from when Craig had bitten him. Craig glances around the room, looks towards the closed door and the window with the curtains drawn, looks towards the open closet, looks back, then asks, “Why do you want to do that?”

“Because I want you to feel good,” Stan says.

There’s hesitance. A second, a minute, a while. More glances, nervous shifting, thoughts sifting, and then— “Okay,” Craig says. “You can do that.”

Stan breathes a sigh of relief, thankful that there’s something he can do to help Craig out in some way. He doesn’t immediately reach for Craig’s crotch, even though he’d love nothing more than to jump right into it. He doesn’t want to make any sudden movements, if that makes sense. He doesn’t want to leap and then have Craig back out because it was too fast. Stan wants to take it slow, so he does. He kisses Craig on the mouth, trails pecks from the corner of his lips to his jawline, gives open-mouthed and wet presses to Craig’s neck. Craig tilts his head, inviting the contact, leaning into it. With his mouth busy, Stan pulls his hands away from Craig’s ass and starts to unbutton Craig’s jeans. When that’s finished, he unzips them, taking his time. At some point, Craig’s breath picks up, and Stan has a feeling that has something to do with the anticipation of what’s to come.

With Craig’s jeans undone, Stan slowly slips his fingertips past the waistband of Craig’s underwear. He can feel Craig tense, the closer Stan gets to his dick. He presses a kiss to Craig’s cheek, and Craig leans into it like it’s a solace, or a distraction. Craig breathes in shakily, his eyes shut. Stan’s hand finally closes around Craig’s dick. He doesn’t do anything for a bit, simply holds it, feeling it, hot and hard and smooth in his hand. Craig exhales.

“Are you okay?” Stan asks. “You seem a little— like, freaked.”

“I’m not freaked, idiot,” Craig says, his voice dark. He swallows thickly. When he breathes in again, it’s accompanied by a shiver. Stan doesn’t hear him breathe out, but apparently he does, because he inhales sharply before adding, “I’m just trying not to—”

Craig twitches in Stan’s hand, and Stan instinctively squeezes a little, which pulls a shallow moan from Craig. “Oh,” Stan says. Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Stan’s barely done anything yet, though, which is a little disappointing if Craig is seriously that close already. The disappointment passes, however, because Stan’s honestly not that concerned with himself right now. His first priority is Craig. Stan peeks down to where his hand disappears into Craig’s underwear. “Oh, uh, do you need, like, lube, or anything?”

“I don’t _need_ it, but it’d be nice,” Craig says. Stan decides to air on the side of caution and reaches blindly towards his nightstand. He knocks something over, and upon glancing up, finds it to have been a book he’d been reading. The bookmark fell out. Fuck. Whatever, he’ll be mad about it later. There are more important things going on. Stan pulls open the drawer on his nightstand and fumbles through the cluttered contents until he finds what he’d been searching for. He pulls out the bottle of lube, withdrawing his hand from Craig’s pants. Suddenly, Craig huffs. “Dude, what the fuck.”

“What?” Stan asks, glancing up. Craig scoots back a bit, sitting lower on Stan’s thighs. He nods to the bottle of lube.

“You literally have lube?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. “Kenny gave it to me.”

“Are you telling me,” begins Craig, quirking a brow, “that Kenny not only coughed up the money for lube, but also willingly gave it up?”

Stan clears his throat, glancing at the bottle in his hands. He shifts it, examining the label. “Okay, so, maybe I stole it,” Stan admits, much to the surprise of Craig. When he looks back up to examine Craig’s face, Stan is met with a vaguely disbelieving expression.

“You stole lube?” Craig says. “From Kenny?”

“Well— no, I got it from…” wow, when did Stan’s throat get so dry? He clears it again, fidgeting with the cap on the bottle. He finally decides to open it and leave it like that. He hesitates before pouring some into his hand. “Uh, never mind. This might be easier if you take off—”

Craig adjusts so he’s kneeling, pulling his jeans down. He rolls off of Stan’s lap to finish squirming out of his jeans, and once they’re off, he tosses them to the end of the bed. Okay, so, it might be beside the point, but Stan likes the way Craig looks, laying pants-less in his bed. Without thinking about it, he closes the cap of the bottle and sets it aside, disregarding it for the time being. He climbs over Craig, immediately diving in for a kiss as they get settled with Stan hovering above Craig on his knees and elbow. His other hand remains safe with the palm turned up, careful not to lose any lube on his sheets.

A few more kisses later, and Stan adjusts to support his weight primarily on his knees, bending at the waist to keep mouthing at whatever is available to him. At some point, his kisses trail down to Craig’s collarbone, where he laves his tongue over the dip in his clavicle. Craig’s breath hitches.

Stan starts to pull Craig’s underwear down with the lube-free hand, but apparently that’s iffy territory. Craig grabs Stan’s hand and asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

Stan peeks up, confused. “I’m… pulling your underwear down,” he says.

“Why?” Craig asks, brows twitching down. Stan glances at his hand.

“So I can… reach better?” he answers, though it’s significantly less confident than he’d been going for. He’s afraid of the consequences of such an unsure tone, a little unhappy with the idea that he may have gotten too cocky with what he’d been doing. He should have asked first. He definitely should have asked first. “I’m sorry, is that—”

“It’s okay,” Craig says. He lets go of Stan’s hand. After a seconds’ pause, Stan resumes pulling down Craig’s underwear, slow in his new approach. He kisses Craig on the cheek, adjusting to lay more or less next to Craig. Stan hooks his right leg over Craig’s, to ensure closeness. He peeks down at what his hand is doing, making sure he’s not about to miss and get lube everywhere. He bites his lip at the sight of Craig’s dick, exposed for the first time to the open air. Stan never thought he’d see Craig bare like this. Stan isn’t complaining, though. He loves it. He loves this. Warmth starts to spread everywhere he’s touching Craig, most prominent in the hand that wraps around Craig’s dick, and second most prominent in his lips, which still hum from kissing. Stan slowly strokes down Craig’s shaft, listening to the whispers of his breath against Stan’s ear. He strokes back up. Craig bucks. Stan’s face is red, he can feel it, god, he’s probably blushing so hard right now.

He’s never touched another guy like this before. It’s… like, there’s something about it, that’s _really_ … Stan blinks away the thought, unwilling to delve into self-reflecting places right now. There is plenty of time for that _afterward_. For now, he focuses on Craig— on the way his body moves below him, on the way he’s clutching at Stan’s bare shoulders, at the way he has his head tipped back and his eyes loosely shut. Stan adjusts, shifting so he’s no longer laying beside Craig. Instead, he perches between Craig’s legs, which had naturally spread open. He has a better reach here, more centered than he’d been, and it’s easier on his shoulder to support himself with his hand resting on the mattress to Craig’s right. Craig doesn’t let go of Stan’s shoulders. Instead, he grips tighter. Save for the occasional bucking of his hips, he is really quite composed. Stan decides to try something out. He gently twists his palm near the head, the lube allowing an easy glide. Craig’s breath rushes out from his mouth, the sudden tension allowing a soft moan to slip free. Oh, wow.

Stan leans in, kissing Craig. It’s hot, so hot, and Stan can feel Craig breathing against him. Their chests brush together, the fabric of Craig’s shirt grazing Stan’s skin. In that moment, Stan doubts he’s ever been this hard in his life. It’s fantastic, but also kind of torture, because it’s difficult to ignore the urge to rut against Craig’s leg or his mattress. This position doesn’t really allow for much access in that regard, which is teasing. And it kind of hurts. But it’s a good hurt. Or, maybe it’s not. Stan’s not too sure.

He pulls away from the kiss, watching Craig’s face as he gains speed with the strokes. His eyes are still closed, his mouth shut tightly as he chews on the skin of his lips. He’s blushing, Craig is— red and warm, shades from the caramel. Butterscotch, Stan muses. But darker, more suntanned, lovely. Beautiful.

Stan turns his head to glance back at what’s going on. He hardly realizes he’s started to watch rather intently, captivated with the way Craig is moving with his hand, his hips stuttering. He has really nice legs, Stan finds himself thinking. Craig is thin, vague hints of muscles across his body, and while those legs are no different from that, they’re still really nice to look at. Craig’s shirt has lifted up a bit, revealing up to his navel. He kind of wants to touch Craig’s stomach. It’s, like, an impulse. Should he do it? Stan kind of doesn’t have a free hand. He’s holding himself up with one and jerking Craig off with the other, and he doesn’t exactly want to face-plant— nor does he want to stop this at all. His thoughts are cut short when Craig suddenly lets go of Stan’s shoulders and grabs Stan’s head, forcing him to look up. Craig’s face has gained a certain note to it, an expression that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps it had been building. Stan doesn’t know. Craig’s eyes are foggy.

“Don’t look,” Craig whines— literally _whines_ — and it makes Stan’s heart clench in his chest, triggers an instinct deep inside of him that screams _protect_. Everything kind of makes sense now, and it all seems kind of crazy. Craig always held this air of confidence— this _I’m supposed to be here_ type of posture, one that made people believe it, even if it wasn’t explicitly true. He never really seemed to care, whether people looked at him or not, comfortable with whatever and coming off as cocky or full of himself, or whatever. Stan’s view of him changes. Not too much, but just a little. It changes in the way that he understands him more. The words hit him, cut deep.

“It’s okay,” Stan says. Craig’s breath gets caught somewhere, sounding thick when it comes out. Stan buries his head against Craig’s shoulder, nuzzling into the fabric of Craig’s sweater and breathing in his scent, distinct and right and perfect. He does that twist-thing with his hand that Craig likes again, and Craig gasps, his arms looping around Stan’s neck, pulling him closer. Stan allows him to, even if it’s a little hard to breathe with his face pressed into Craig’s shoulder like this. It’s okay, because Craig’s comfort is first and foremost. This is for Craig. This is for Craig to feel good.

Stan tightens his grip on Craig’s penis just a bit and does the little twist again. A moan— soft, hardly audible. Stan closes his eyes to imagine it, what Craig’s face looks like, what Craig’s body is doing, if his feet are flexing or if his heels are digging into the mattress. Craig starts to card his fingers through Stan’s hair, and Stan doesn’t know if that’s purposeful or absentminded, but he loves it all the same. “Right— there, up—” Craig whispers, and Stan listens, rubbing his thumb over the head, sweeping through the precum beading at the tip. A bit later, Craig starts to thrust more consistently with Stan’s ministrations, his fingers curling tighter through Stan’s hair. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Stan replies. He can feel it, with the shakiness that Craig’s hips have gained, the way his back is arching, the way those pleasured little noises have been coming more regularly, hardly finishing one before beginning another, a slew of stuttering moans. Stan tries to lift his head, but Craig is hugging him too tightly, holding him down. Stan settles for turning his head, leaving butterfly kisses over the area of Craig’s neck that he can reach. With a nip to the skin, Stan says, “Go ahead.”

Another gasp— and then that gasp deepens, as if Craig is shocked. It shakes in his throat, and his hips quiver, picking up speed before freezing. The ejaculate gets primarily in Stan’s hand, though some gets on Craig’s stomach. Craig’s grip loosens on Stan, before his arms fall completely away, landing near his head on the mattress. Stan lingers with his face in Craig’s neck, even though he’s curious about Craig’s post-O-face (also, he wants to grab tissues to clean up the mess on his hand and Craig’s stomach). It’s only when Craig shudders with a soft whimper that Stan sits up, rapid to figure out what’s wrong.

Stan swears to god, his heart shatters into a million pieces when he sees that Craig has started to cry.

Not super heavily or anything, but Craig is crying. A dampness has collected, and when he shuts his eyes, tears fall down his cheeks. For too long, Stan is frozen, just watching, his heart pounding a hundred thousand miles a minute. His ears heat up, throbbing in panic, because, _oh god_ , he fucked up, didn’t he? “Craig?” Stan asks. Craig sniffs. “Craig, what’s wrong?”

Craig shakes his head, slowly moving to sit up. Stan gently pushes Craig back to lay down with his clean hand.

“Just rest, okay?” Stan says. “You don’t have to get up, you’re okay, I’m gonna go get a warm washcloth to clean you up, okay? It’s okay.”

Stan expects to get an argument, but he doesn’t. Craig only nods, pulling his sleeves over his hands and using the fabric to wipe his eyes. Stan hesitates before sliding off of the bed and making his way quickly to the bathroom across the hall. He washes his hands, grabs a washcloth, wets it under the warm running tap, and goes back to his bedroom after squeezing out the excess water. When he makes it back, Craig hasn’t moved much. The only difference is the fact that Craig has shifted his legs, now bent, his feet flat against the mattress. Stan steps over, announcing his return before climbing back onto the bed and beginning to clean Craig up. Once everything has been tidied, Stan sets the washcloth on his nightstand to be washed later. For now, Craig needs some TLC.

Stan helps pull Craig’s underwear and jeans back on, and when Craig’s fingers shake too much to do up the fly, Stan takes over, zipping and buttoning them. Stan doesn’t mind doing the little things, the aftercare, the cleanup, but Craig doesn’t look too happy. His eyes are still damp, reflecting the light from the window in a new way, one that Stan never thought he’d see. They curl up together in bed, pulling the blanket up and over them. Facing one another, they look into each other’s eyes, just gazing. Staying. Stan rests a hand on Craig’s cheek, stroking his thumb over the skin. It’s dry, now, though Stan remembers the way the tears looked when they’d shown up.

“Are you okay?” Stan asks. Craig nods. “What happened?”

“I just—” Craig cuts off, glancing away. There’s a moment of hesitation, of waiting, of nothing. Discomfort blooms in Craig’s expression. Stan is just about to call off his inquiry when Craig finally says, surprisingly deadpan, “I cry when I cum.”

It kind of hits Stan like a slap in the face, honestly. He’d never heard of someone crying during sex. Or, after sex? Semantics aside, it’s not what Stan expected to hear. He isn’t judging, though. He would never judge. He is kind of curious, though. “Why?” Stan asks. Craig makes an exasperated nose, closing his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Craig says. “I just do, okay? It just happens.”

Fair enough. Stan accepts that. He busies himself in the silence that follows, continuing the little strokes of Craig’s cheek, tracing the skin of his jaw, pushing a portion of Craig’s bangs away from his eyes. It’s very nice. All of it is, really. The closeness, their shared warmth, the blanket, even though it’s almost June. Graduation is right around the corner, and after that, Stan ships out to basic. He’s going to miss this.

In a sentimental impulse, Stan kisses Craig’s forehead. Craig nuzzles into the touch, whether it be purposeful or subconscious. Stan pulls back and smiles. He’s happy. Really happy. He could lay here forever, y’know? He could lay here in the warmth, even if it is a bit stifling, and he could lay here in the deepening light, from the coming of late afternoon. How did he get here? Stan slips his hand down to find Craig’s, lacing their fingers together. Craig squeezes, and Stan returns it. “So,” Craig says, utterly quiet. “Dog tags.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Dude, seriously? You’re not dropping that?”

“Most people don’t wear them,” Craig says. “So, what is it? Why do you wear them? Is it a fashion statement?”

“No, it isn’t a fashion statement,” Stan says. Craig quirks a brow.

“You sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” Stan answers.

“Then why do you wear them?”

Stan’s hand automatically goes to his neck, where he usually wears them, but they aren’t there. He hadn’t put them on today. He’d forgotten, and that makes him feel a little crappy. They’re still in the box on his desk. He glances across the room without thinking about it, before looking back to Craig. “I don’t really want to talk about it after… y’know.”

“Sex?” asks Craig.

“Oh, is that what that was?” replies Stan.

Craig playfully hits Stan in the center of his chest, to which Stan chuckles. “You’ll tell me eventually,” Craig says. Fortunately enough, Craig doesn’t seem too insanely set on getting an answer right this moment. Stan is grateful for that.

He rubs his thumb over the skin of Craig’s knuckles, feeling the little divots created from dryness. Craig’s grip is strong. It always has been, Stan supposes, in retrospect. From the time Craig put his hand over Stan’s mouth, Stan noticed it. He likes the way it feels. The strength. The way they’re worn, the way they look kind of like they’d belong to someone who works on cars or other engineering things. Craig’s fingernails are rough, probably bitten. Stan never picked up the habit— and not for lack of trying. Which is a weird thing to say, but it’s true. He’d been curious, so he tried to start biting his nails. It just didn’t happen.

“I have to tell you something,” Craig says. Stan freezes. He doesn’t know what he expects Craig to say, but it’s never good when someone prefaces it with _I have to tell you something_ , right? The nervousness starts to make Stan’s heart pick up, quick in his chest. He looks at Craig’s face, tries to find a hint, but he can’t. The most he can pick up is the fact that he’s nervous.

“What’s up?” Stan asks. Craig swallows.

“I…” he trails off. He doesn’t look up. He keeps his gaze downtrodden for a solid few seconds. Or maybe it’s a minute. It feels too long, and Stan starts to dread it, afraid that Craig is going to say something like _you were awful_ or _I cried because I hate you_ or something. But neither of those things come. Craig lifts his eyes, meeting Stan’s own, and whispers, “I love you.”

Stan could blame it on shock. He could blame it on relief, he could blame it on happiness or surprise, and in some ways, he does. He is shocked, and he is relieved, and he is happy and surprised and feeling everything in between, but it also scares him. And, maybe, that fear forces him to act nonchalant, or aloof, or whatever the word is— maybe, in the face of it, he’s trying to seem strong.

Whatever the reason, Stan’s reaction is stupidly thoughtless.

Stan laughs.

And Craig bristles, genuinely looking offended, and that’s when the fear _really_ sets into Stan’s spine. “Wow,” Craig says. Stan doesn’t know how to answer. It’s hard to do much with so little— or maybe now is the time where Stan is supposed to say _I love you_ back, but he can’t. His throat won’t work, his mouth doesn’t want to say the words. They seem so terrifying. He avoids it like a child avoiding the dark, turning on a light to cancel it out, a temporary fix to something he shouldn’t be scared of in the first place, but he is, okay? He’s afraid. And he said it before, but he’ll say it again, _he is afraid_ , because this isn’t what’s supposed to happen.

He never thought he would...

...it’s just strange.

It feels too real.

Crag pulls away, sitting up. Stan follows, tries to reach out, to tug him back, but Craig slaps his hand away. Craig exits Stan’s bedroom without another word. His footsteps are audible as he travels down the hall and descends the stairs. Stan doesn’t move. He can’t. His ears are burning more than they ever have before. He’s ashamed of himself. The front door opens and slams shut. Stan flinches at the feeling of the house shaking.

It’s quiet.

Stan can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He can feel it in his cheeks, feel it in his chest, heavy and speeding. He feels like he just ran a red light. Or six. In a row. Twelve, maybe, he doesn’t know. He draws in a breath, almost forgetting how to breathe from the shock of it all. He pushes his fingers through his hair, lost, slow. He’s trying to self-regulate.

Silent, Stan grabs a shirt from his dresser and tugs it on.

He grabs the washcloth, heads into the bathroom, rinses it out, washes it, leaves it beside the tub to dry.

He wanders back into his bedroom, not thinking.

He opens the box on his desk, pulls out the dog tags.

He crawls into bed.

He puts on the dog tags, fidgets with the tags themselves, rolling them against the bumpy chain, tugging softly.

He likes the texture. It helps soothe him.

His bed still smells like Craig.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all i'm finally back to continuing this story lol
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> because i can't fckn write only one story at once pffft
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


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